


Hazard Heart

by AnnaFan



Series: The Silk Road [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 10:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 61,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8283322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaFan/pseuds/AnnaFan
Summary: Cormallen, shortly after victory. The King of Rohan needs a wife - at least this is what his advisors tell him. Repeatedly. But certainly not a flighty social butterfly. Or a girl straight out of the schoolroom. Meanwhile, the last thing the youngest princess of Dol Amroth wants is a husband. She has far more interesting plans. Or, to put it another way, what happens if you put my Aussie Rohirrim from "Howzat" into Gondorian high society loosely modelled on Georgette Heyer's regency England, with a Lothiriel inspired by Hedy Lamarr, star of the silver screen and mathematical genius.  (And an Ivriniel also based on someone from real life... but we'll get to that later in the story.)Part of my "Silk Road" series, sequel to Howzat, and Dear Diary.





	1. Chapter 1

_Musical accompaniment: The overture to the Marriage of Figaro_

 

Lothíriel strolled across the turf, revelling in the warm rays of the sun, feeling calm and at ease with the world. The lush grass was springy beneath her feet, the trees encircling the field of Cormallen a deep, verdant green, and in the distance the river babbled gently. A contented sigh escaped the Princess. She had breakfasted with her eldest brother Elphir and his wife, her two younger brothers being slightly under the weather, having got foxed (again) the previous night. Still, she supposed, they needed to drown their sorrows after their ignominious defeat by the Rohirrim in the game of Thar-rhevia. 

Lothíriel smiled at the memory. The game had been rather good fun, the Rohirrim, with their blond hair, made an exotic sight, and the roast boar afterwards had been excellent. And the polite attentions of the King of Rohan had been more than welcome. Exotically blond like his subjects, tall and handsome – definitely a man on whose arm she was happy to be seen. She wondered if he could dance, then decided with a sigh that he probably could not – at least, not dance the complicated, courtly measures favoured in Minas Tirith. She could, however, imagine him dancing a sailor's hornpipe outside a pub on the quayside of Dol Amroth. She chuckled at the absurdity of this thought, then gave her head a shake as if to rid it of the image. What nonsense her mind seemed to be conjuring this morning. Perhaps the wine last night had been stronger than she had realised at the time.

Spotting a soft-looking patch of grass, Lothíriel sat down. She gathered up her skirts and tucked her feet beneath her, then drew out the letter she had tucked into her sleeve and began to read.

_Dearest Little Lothi,_

Lothíriel wrinkled her nose. Nearly twenty, and her cousin still affectionately referred to her as little Lothi! Still, she supposed, for one nearing his dotage at the grand old age of six and thirty, she probably did still seem little to him.

_I should imagine this letter will be waiting for you when you eventually get to Cormallen, but I thought I would write anyway, even if it was likely to be some time before you arrived and were able to read it._

_Thank you for your solicitous enquiries as to the state of my health. I am much recovered, bless the Valar, though occasional struck by attacks of the megrims – the healers assure me this is only to be expected having been subjected to the black breath. I have however managed to escape from the clutches of the healers long enough to engage in the much needed task of starting to set things to rights. There is so much to do: supplies to be arranged (the city was on the brink of starvation); detailed notes of damage and a plan of priorities for repairs and rebuilding; and of course, the coronation to be organised. Oh, and unfortunately, also repairs to the sewers. Surveying the damage to these was not an enjoyable task. Fortunately I am surrounded by some excellent administrators who are helping me. Unfortunately, I also have Lord Castamir to offer his advice. But the less said about that, the better._

_I have no doubt you will make the acquaintance of the King of Rohan. Could you let him know that his sister (whom I was privileged to meet while in the houses) is making a good recovery? I know that she wrote to him to tell him that she was unable to come to Cormallen, but he should know that although not up to the journey at present, she has made great improvements and should in time be restored to full health._

_As for your question in your last letter concerning games of chance: what a fascinating problem you set. A pair of dice, thrown successively, four and twenty times. Does the chance that on at least one of those throws, the pair will turn up a double six, exceed evens? As you said in your letter, we could simply put it to the test repeatedly, but you are right: it would be so much more satisfying to have an argument constructed from general principles and universally applicable. Alas, I have been somewhat preoccupied of late, and have not had much time to devote to the matter, but I shall try to find a spare moment to ponder the issue, if for no better reason than to see your brothers' faces when you relieve them of their silver next time we play Hazard together._

_With fondest regards and love,_  
Your cousin,  
Faramir. 

_PS the White Lady of Rohan is rather wonderful, albeit somewhat terrifying when annoyed. I think I angered her by being overly solicitous. I am trying not to repeat that mistake. Fara._

_PPS Perhaps best not to mention to her brother that I find her wonderful. F._

_PPPS She is, though!_

Lothíriel found herself laughing out loud at this last sentence. So, after so many years dedicating himself to the service of Gondor, immersing himself in books of poetry and geometry, and trying to avoid the notice, and hence the ire, of his father, her bookish cousin had finally discovered women. She decided that this information was definitely best kept private: never mind the reaction of the King of Rohan – her brothers, were they to find out, would be merciless in their teasing. And she was much too fond of Faramir to allow that to happen. 

Besides which, one never knew when the threat of revealing his secret might provide useful the basis for profitable negotiations. She knew he had in his possession a book (originally Boromir's) of rather racy poetry. Admittedly, the book was in Quenya, but nonetheless... She knew how to translate 'pukku'; how hard could the rest of it be? She had always wanted to get a closer look at it, but Faramir had always said that it was much too explicit for her delicate feminine sensibilities. Pah, delicate feminine sensibilities be damned. The book was wasted on her cousin, and since her father would no doubt be actively looking for a suitable match for her now that peace was established, a thorough grounding in the theory of the marital arts seemed like sensible preparation. Not that she intended to go down without a fight: she had much more interesting plans for her life than marriage. After all, Aunt Ivriniel had never married, and look what she had managed to make of her life...

With a contented murmur, much like a cat basking on a window sill, she lay down on the grass in the warm sunshine. Idly, she wove a strand of grass between her fingers and thought about the problem with the two dice. The key, she was sure, lay in the fact that the dice had no memory of what had happened to them the throw before. Yes, yes, she knew that habitual gamblers – her middle brother among them – were wont to say things like “Hasn't turned up six for ages: we must be due one!” But these sayings were, in her considered opinion, errant nonsense. The dice didn't care what the gamblers thought they were due, the dice didn't know, they had no memory, they just did what they did on each throw as if the world were remade anew each time.

She had just started to frame a reply to Faramir's letter in her mind, detailing her insight and musing on its mathematical implications, when the brash sound of bugles interrupted her train of thought. She sat up, shading her eyes against the sun, and looked across the grass to the road. There, a sizeable cavalcade of men-at-arms, cavalry, horses (including ladies' palfreys), carriages and wagons was wending its way towards the brightly coloured city of tents. It was quite a magnificent sight – the men at arms wore brilliant tunics of deep pinks and reds, the ladies on palfreys were attired in shades of stunning blues, primrose yellows and greens, and from each carriage flew the pennant of the noble house of its occupant.

Lothíriel squinted, then gave a squeak of joy when she recognised the bar sinister, azure, and lion, couchant-regardant, or, of Lord Borlas. There was a high chance that her dear friend, Merilwen, was among the new arrivals. She leapt to her feet and ran across the grass, silken skirts flying. She arrived just in time to see an esquire assisting the ladies of the party in descending from a covered wagon.

Merilwen was every bit as delighted to see Lothíriel as the Princess was to meet her friend once more, and the two embraced warmly. It rapidly became apparent that it would take some time for the servants to establish Lord Borlas' encampment, so Lothíriel invited her friend and her sister back to the Dol Amroth pavilion for a light repast and a chance to rest after their long journey. The girls chattered in delight all the way across the grass, and continued without drawing breath, once seated inside, and provisioned with cakes and fruit cordial.

“Oh Lothi, you have no idea how wonderful it is to see you. It has been beyond boring to be stuck up in the sticks out in Lossarnach. One simply cannot get a decently trimmed bonnet for love nor money, and all the dresses are last season's.” Lady Siliveth, Merilwen's older sister, had hardly drawn breath since Lothíriel had managed to find the two of them in the elegantly decked-out carriage that had transported them to Cormallen.

Merilwen rolled her eyes in frustration. “Anyone would think, sister dear, that the lack of nicely trimmed bonnets was the worst privation of the war.”

“Well, it certainly was most trying,” Siliveth replied, her lips forming into a pretty moue. “At least you were in Dol Amroth, Lothíriel. It may not quite be up to snuff as regards the very latest couture, but it's a jolly sight better than Lossarnach.”

“Kind of you to say so,” said Lothíriel, blandly. “But actually I was a tad preoccupied, helping mother to run the principality in father's absence. You cannot imagine how much paperwork there is to do, preventing people starving and what not. Possibly almost as much as juggling your dressmaker's bills.”

Merilwen stifled a laugh, but Lothíriel's words seemed to roll off Siliveth without making any impression whatsoever, rather like water off a swan's back, for she continued, “Oh my goodness, yes... the cost of a decent gown these days is entirely shocking. Still, one must look one's best, and despite Bronaer's many shortcomings as a husband, I can at least acquit him of meanness: he has never stinted on my allowance. Though I suppose that is in his interests – he does like me to look decorative, so as to do him credit.”

“I really do not know why you put up with him,” said Lothíriel.

“He is rich, he is handsome, he is powerful, and it would be altogether too tedious to get our marriage annulled,” Siliveth said, in a languid tone, as if she really could not be bothered to think about the matter in any detail. Lothíriel reflected that for all Siliveth's superficiality, beneath the taste in fripperies, she had a deeply pragmatic streak. She was a little surprised then, when Siliveth continued, “Of course he has overstepped the mark this time. Discreet liaisons are only to be expected from a man, one doesn't expect them to approach their marriage vows in quite the same way we women are expected to, but to flaunt his current paramour quite so blatantly... well, it's simply beyond the pale.”

Merilwen chipped in at this point. “Yes, would you believe, Lady Gwenneth has actually come to Cormallen.”

Lothíriel looked from one sister to the other. She suspected that Siliveth was not quite as sanguine about her husband's behaviour as she pretended to be. And whatever a woman could expect from her husband in private (and the princess told herself she personally would expect a great deal more: after all quite a few men of her acquaintance, including her father and her eldest brother, seemed perfectly capable of remaining faithful to their wives) it was outrageous that Bronaer should parade his indiscretions quite so publicly. 

“So what do you intend to do about his behaviour?” asked Lothíriel.

“Why, show him that what's sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose. I intend to find a handsome young man, preferably younger and better looking than Bronaer, and flirt outrageously. Don't worry, I shall not overstep the bounds of decency, but I intend to make my bastard of a husband a little bit worried and a little bit jealous, and see if that brings him to heel.”

“Are you sure that's a good idea?” The princess wasn't quite sure how to frame the idea rattling around her head, but somehow it seemed to her that without love there could not be jealousy. There could however be wounded pride at the presumed insult to his manliness, and anger at the prospect of losing his grip on his property. And Lothíriel had a sense that Bronaer might be a dangerous man to cross. But it seemed that Siliveth was determined to press on without a care for the consequences.

“You know, I think a dashing young favourite might be just the ticket. Perhaps,” she added, “I might set my sights quite high. I hear that the King of Rohan is very good looking, and cuts a fine figure in the lists.” And with that, she swept out of the pavilion, presumably to start her hunting expedition.

“Oh dear,” said Lothíriel. “I do hope your sister doesn't find herself in play that is too deep!”

“Hah!” said Merilwen. “Siliveth is like a cat – always lands on her feet, and has nine lives to boot.” She cast a glance at Lothíriel and said “So, the King of Rohan... Have you met him?”

“Yes, I was privileged to make his acquaintance yesterday.” Lothíriel adopted her blandest expression.

“And? Do tell! Is he handsome enough and young enough to make Bronaer jealous?”

Lothíriel paused for a moment. For some reason she felt strangely reticent about discussing the man with her friend. She shook the vague feeling of embarrassment off, and answered “Oh yes, I should think so. Very dashing indeed. And quite personable in a slightly rough-round-the-edges sort of way.”

“Oh, a handsome barbarian. How simply thrilling. Does he look like the sort of man who'd sweep a girl off her feet?” Merilwen nibbled a bit of honey cake.

“Well, he certainly looks strong enough to do so without effort.” Lothíriel struggled to keep her face straight, as she recalled that actually there was no denying the fact that the man was very attractive. Blond hair in waves the colour of honey, a beard a couple of shades darker still... There was something about that beard. Men in Gondor were typically clean shaven, but somehow the beard reminded her that... well, that he was a man. Neatly trimmed – it wasn't bushy and overwhelming, just... there. Definitely attractive!

Lothíriel gave her head a little shake. Good mercy of the Valar, she was as bad as the tattling, tittering serving maids back in Dol Amroth, swooning over her brothers. The last thing she wanted was to have her head turned by a handsome face. For she had seen this game played out too many times – with her eldest brother for a start. Every single eligible maid of good social standing in Gondorian society would be circling round the king like flies round a jam jar. And Lothíriel had far too much pride to compete in that particular game.

It was undoubtedly time to change the subject. A counter-offensive, to distract attention from her unwanted train of thought.

“So, thinking of handsome young men, are you still pining for your charming but penniless second lieutenant?”

Merilwen blushed a deep pink.

“Ah, I see the answer is 'yes'. Your father will never allow it, you know.”

“Oh, but Lothíriel, he acquitted himself so well upon the field before the Black Gates. He was mentioned in dispatches. And has been made lieutenant – no longer just a second lieutenant. And with the rank goes an extra six castars a month.”

Lothíriel struggled to keep a straight face. Why, Merilwen's sister must spend at least a hundred castars a month on her dress allowance alone, before one even considered the costs of perfumes and paints, never mind throwing elaborate dinner parties and staging entertainments for her social circle. Rumour had it that one of her recent soirees had included pheasants stuffed with jewels, and Tolfalas wine sprinkled with flakes of gold leaf. _Waste of good wine_ , thought Lothíriel. _And think of the furore if someone had broken a tooth on one of the wretched jewels._

As if Merilwen had read her mind, she burst out, “But I am not like my sister. I do not aspire to the first circles of fashion. It would not make me happy. I would be happy in retirement on a country estate, proving myself a useful chatelaine to my lord and husband. And my dear Arodon has a large enough bounty from Pelennor and Morannon that he could afford to restore his father's manor house and the lands around it, well, at least, if everyone pitched in, and maybe if my father could be persuaded to part with a small dowry – nothing like the size of my sister's, of course.”

 

“Why 'of course'?” asked Lothíriel. If truth were known, she sometimes found Merilwen's acquiescence in her family's low opinion of her a little wearing. 

“Well, Siliveth was always the prettier of the two of us. And so much more accomplished. And mother says she has that certain indefinable _something_ which makes her ever so appealing. Mother says I am charming but a little bland.”

“Well, your mother is wrong – and I'm pretty sure the dashing lieutenant Arodon would agree with me about that. And much good her 'certain something' has done Siliveth. I mean, would you want to be married to Bronaer?”

Merilwen gave a little shudder. “Most assuredly not. But you see, Siliveth is much bolder than I am, and better able to handle him.”

“I rather doubt any woman to be capable of handling him – he is a singularly unpleasant man, from what I have seen. But let us talk of more cheerful matters. I hear there is a to be a ball organised for the night after tomorrow.” And with that, the two young women fell to talking comfortably of uncontentious subjects like the choice of ball gown and which hairstyles were all the rage.


	2. Black Squire

The day after the game of Thar-rhevia, Éomer took a somewhat hungover Amrothos and Erchirion to inspect the Rohirrim horses, with a view to coming to some sort of agreement about which horses they would like to breed into the Dol Amroth blood lines, and what sort of stud fees should be payable. It was as they were admiring a particularly fine bay stallion that the contingent from Minas Tirith arrived. Éomer watched, somewhat nonplussed, as a panoply of wagons, assorted riders on horseback and accompanying cavalry wound its way along the road which led from the south. 

“What the hell's going on?” he asked Erchirion.

“The hunt has arrived,” the Gondorian replied, somewhat cryptically.

“The hunt?”

“The flower of Gondor's knighthood, and not a few foreign heroes, yourself foremost among them, are currently held at bay in the small covert that is Cormallen. The hounds, in the form of the unmarried maidens of Gondor and their baying maters, have arrived to descend upon their prey, teeth bared for the fight, along with their jewels and cleavages,” Erchirion explained, in a languid voice.

“Bloody hell,” said Éothain, observing a somewhat buck-toothed young woman in an extremely frilly gown descend from a richly decorated covered wagon. Her face was slightly green (no doubt an after-effect of being bounced around inside the wagon on the rough road) and clashed horribly with the lilac silk of her dress.

Amrothos looked at his two new friends. A sudden jolt of fear clutched his guts. They were innocents abroad, completely unaware of the shoals and reefs lurking under the apparently smooth surface waters of Gondorian society.

“Come on, my dear chaps, let us retire quickly for a game of cards and a discussion of the minutiae of Gondorian court behaviour, before you have to meet the ravening beasts head on. Best to be thoroughly prepared,” Amrothos said, waving the two Rohirrim towards his tent.

“What do you mean?” said Éomer in puzzled tones.

“Only that if you're not careful, you will find yourself having hopelessly compromised some young woman, and thus obliged to marry her so as not to cause a diplomatic incident.”

“I'm not bloody stupid, you know,” Éomer retorted hotly. “I know better than to shove my hand up some sheila's skirt. I'm quite capable of behaving myself decently round women. Contrary to what you Gondy bastards seem to think, we're not complete savages.”

“Calm yourself, my good fellow. Of course I don't think of you as savages. But you see, actions falling a long way short of 'shoving your hand up a sheila's skirt', as you so delicately put it, are capable of compromising her.” 

Éomer's brow knitted at this cryptic remark, so Amrothos continued, “For instance, when you kiss her hand, your nose may brush her knuckles, but not your lips, and on no account must you kiss her palm, or, worse still, her wrist. And when it comes to conversation, stick to the weather. Do not share food with her – honey cakes or the like…” 

Éomer and Éothain found their mood sinking as Amrothos outlined a long list of things they must not do, on pain of finding themselves unintentionally betrothed to the buck-toothed young woman in lilac or one of her equally unprepossessing companions.

Eventually, when Amrothos finished his lengthy list, with the rather discouraging words, “That'll do to be going on with – don't want to get you too confused. Obviously there are other, more subtle nuances, but that should help you avoid most of the obvious pitfalls.”

It struck Éomer that the rules around dealing with women in Gondor were, if anything, even more complex than those of Thar-rhevia. Puzzled, he excused himself to fetch a stoneware jar of ale from his own tent, saying he would join the Gondorians in a moment. He walked briskly across the grass to the Eorling encampment, his mind swirling. 

_Béma!_ The last thing he needed was to find himself committed to marry some completely unsuitable sheila. But at the same time, an unwelcome thought popped into his head: maybe this was an opportunity to find a wife. _Find a wife?_ He had no doubt that his advisors were more than anxious for him to do so. After all, at the moment, what was left of the house of Eorl? Himself, unmarried, without issue, his sister, unmarried, without issue (and currently recuperating from the black breath – Béma only knew when she would feel like marriage, given her history with Wormtongue, and her desperate unrequited crush on Aragorn – yes, he had eyes in his head, even with the desperate situation at Edoras at the time, he had noticed Éowyn turn into a moon-struck teenager). He could see their point, at least from a political angle. 

But from a personal angle? That buck-toothed girl in the hideous lilac frock? He suddenly thought back to a comment Elfhelm had once made, about a revolting piece of frippery the housekeeper's assistant had tried to hang in the king's chambers in Edoras. Elfhelm had sighed, and said _I'm sure Anorien tarts' knickers look very nice on Anorien tarts, but I don't think much of them hanging in windows._ Éomer couldn't help but think that the lilac frock was akin to a dress-sized version of tarts' knickers. (Not that he had ever seen such garments, having only passed through there once, and at great speed, on the ride to Minas Tirith. Mind you, given how terrifying Hilde was, and how clearly devoted to her Elfhelm was, he rather doubted that Elfhelm had actually seen a pair of them either. But it was a good image nonetheless).

What about girls back home? He could imagine his advisors coming up with a list, some of them quite pretty lassies, and nice enough, but to spend a whole life with them? Not to mention the fact that if he married a girl from the Westfold, the nobility of the Eastfold would feel snubbed, and vice versa. Really, if the whole issue of finding a wife could just be put off for a year or three… He had a kingdom to set in order before he got round to thinking seriously of marriage. Sighing, he pulled back the flap of his tent, and fetched the stoneware jar. _So_ , he thought, _no kissing palms of hands, no sharing honey cakes and definitely no hands up skirts_. Though at that moment, he suddenly recalled the feel of Princess Lothíriel's hand in the crook of his arm. Now there was… he grinned… a palm he'd like to kiss, if that was the right phrase round these parts. On the other hand, she was (he realised in the cold light of day) far too young. It wouldn't be fair to dump the running of a country on her. And it wasn't as though he could just have a flirtation with her – not with the sister of his closest friends, not with a girl so clearly young and inexperienced. _Nah, that would just be playing with fire._ Hastily he tried to set the thought aside. 

Looking around to keep an eye open for any approaching mother-and-daughter pairs of hunting dogs, he made his way back to the cluster of tents beneath the swan banner of Dol Amroth, and nodded to the guard at the entrance of Amrothos' tent as he made his way inside, ducking his head beneath the canvas flap. Inside, Prince Imrahil's younger sons had already arranged themselves ready to play, with Éothain sitting next to them.

“So, what're you playing?” Éomer asked Amrothos, pulling up a chair to the cleverly designed table Erchirion had unfolded in the centre of the pavilion.

“ _Caer ar minib_ ,” said Amrothos, shuffling the cards with an expert flourish. “Literally 'ten plus eleven' – you draw cards from the bank, aiming to get a hand as close to twenty-one as you can, but if you go over, you lose. Aces are one or eleven, at the holder's choice.”

“Ah, sounds like a version of Black Squire,” said Éothain, before adding, “More importantly, what are you playing for?”

“Well,” said Amrothos, “Seeing as how we're playing with friends, and wanting to stay friends, minimum stake is a castar, ceiling of twelve castars. Don't want the play to go too deep.”

A firth man lifted the flap of the tent. Éomer turned to look at him. He was tall, dark haired with a great beak of a nose – typical Gondy bastard, in other words. About forty, insofar as you could tell with a Gondorian. Bloody Elven blood. Clean shaven, well turned out, thin scar on one cheek which gave him a somewhat raffish air. Quite a handsome bugger. The sort who would be popular with the ladies.

Erchirion gestured to him. “Éomer King, allow me to present Lord Bronaer. Lord Bronaer, his liege the king of the Rohirrim, whom I am privileged to call my shield brother.”

Bronaer bowed low, saying simply, “Sire, honoured to make your acquaintance,” before pulling up a chair.

The five men cut. Amrothos drew the highest card and therefore became “bank”, and play commenced. Bronaer turned out to have a lucky streak and to start with gathered up quite a large heap of coins before him. He and Erchirion obviously knew each other well: they talked as they played, a kind of boastful banter.

“Shame about your 'groin-strain' – though your loss was my gain. That tart of yours... Quite a goer. Will do literally anything. If you had her on a billiard table, she'd let you pot the brown as well as the pink, if you catch my drift. What became of her chum, though? I was looking forward to that inventive double act you mentioned.”

“She seemed quite taken with Éothain's sergeant,” Erchirion replied. “I must admit I was somewhat surprised he could afford her. Must have taken his entire bounty for both Pelennor and Morannon in just one night – in fact, one hour, I'd have thought.”

“Capital fellow. I like a man who has his priorities right,” said Bronaer.

“Yeah... nah,” drawled Éothain. “I think she gave him a freebie. Took quite a shine to him.”

“Good grief,” said Erchirion. “I thought she had a better business head on her than that.”

“From what you told me,” Bronaer leered, “her head was one of her better talents.”

Éomer watched this exchange with amusement, though he began to see why Éothain had formed a friendship with Amrothos rather than Erchirion: he himself like a tumble with a willing woman as much as the next man, but Elfhelm and Theodred had brought him up to think that you enjoyed the pleasure of the event itself rather than blabbing about it afterwards. For some reason he had never been able to put a finger on, he'd never been quite comfortable with men who boasted of their conquests with women. Maybe it was something to do with having a sister. Though of course – and here he lost concentration and several more castars – Erchirion had a sister too. Despite his earlier attempts to convince himself that she was much too young for him, much too young to be a suitable queen, he couldn't stop his next thought: _And what a sister._

The gods must have read his thoughts: the tent flap opened to reveal Princess Lothíriel. She swept into the tent, her raven hair falling in curls about her shoulders, her dress of richest Haradi silk rustling around her as she walked.

“ _Caer ar minib_ – how splendid. Deal me in, brother dearest,” she said in a languid voice, drawing up a chair. Éomer raised an eyebrow. In the Mark, though women placed bets as avidly as men, the two did not tend to play cards together. Lothíriel caught his expression and fixed him with a steady, uncompromising gaze. 

The princess sat down as Bronaer politely held her chair. She pushed her elaborately embroidered sleeves up to her elbows and tied them out of the way with ribbon, then tied her thick, dark hair back with a length of leather twine. Éomer tried desperately not to stare as her bodice tightened across her breasts as she stretched her arms behind her head. He failed. That same steady gaze now regarded him with a detached amusement. He rather suspected that she was all too well aware of the effect she had on men, but at the same time he got the impression that rather than trading on it, she viewed it as a kind of curiosity.

“So,” she said, in a conversational tone as her brother dealt the cards, “It seems that mother and I have set something of a fashion. Half of the ladies of the first circle of Gondorian society have arrived at Cormallen. I met your dear wife and your sister-in-law earlier this day, my lord Bronaer. I rather think she expects to see you at her father's soiree this evening.”

“How kind of you to bring such delightful news, princess,” Bronaer responded. Éomer still found it hard to read Gondorians, but there was no missing the chill in the lord's voice. Clearly he had been quite enjoying his extra-curricular activities and regretted their curtailment. “And how nice for you that you have my dear little sister-in-law for company. Two charmingly naïve chits from the schoolroom together.”

Lothíriel gave a smile that Éomer could only think of as dangerous. She said, her voice a feminine version of her father's urbanely diplomatic tones, “Quite. So nice to have one's good friends around one. I note that the Lady Eressil has also made the journey. She is, if I remember aright, a particularly good friend of yours.”

Amrothos made a slight, choking noise and changed the subject. “Did the evening dispatch rider bring any news from Minas Tirith, sister?” He dealt the first set of cards rapidly. Lothíriel picked hers up and assessed them coolly, then replied to her brother.

“Our cousin sends his greetings. He is very busy running the city, getting supplies laid in to all the settlements hard hit by the war, and preparing for the coronation. Altogether too much for him while he is still convalescing, I would have said, but that's Faramir for you.” To Éomer's surprise, she turned to look at him and gave him a dazzling smile. “He has spent some time with your sister, and has asked us to pass on the news to you that she is recovering well, though still understandably she has still not fully regained her strength. She is apparently sad not to have been able to come to Cormallen, but other than that is in good spirits..”

Éomer found himself smiling. He had been very worried when he received a brief note from Éowyn a few days earlier to say that she would not be able to join him. Only now, with Lothíriel's news, did he realise how much he had been worried that she'd been more severely affected than she had let on. 

His smile died on his face a few moments later. Lothíriel laid down a two, a three, a four and two sixes. “ _Caer ar minib_ ,” she said, her face giving nothing away, and coolly scooped up the money from the table. 

A couple of hours later, Éothain, Éomer and Bronaer found themselves completely cleaned out. Bronaer looked absolutely furious. Amrothos threw back his head and laughed.

“My sister is something of a mathematical genius, and a regular wizard with the cards. Nothing cavey, you understand, she's not a card-sharp. She simply has the most incredible memory for which cards have already been played.”

“Comes of spending so much time in the schoolroom,” Lothíriel added, sweetly.

~o~O~o~

An hour or so later, Lothíriel called in on her friend Merilwen once more, to see if she wished to join the Dol Amroth party for the hawking expedition planned for the next day. She found Merilwen looking most upset.

“Mama caught me sneaking out to try to meet Arodon. She will no longer let me go anywhere unless accompanied by Siliveth and that beast Bronaer.” Both Merilwen's eyes and the tip of her nose were red. Lothíriel offered her a handkerchief. 

“Would it cheer you to know that I have just won almost as much as Siliveth's monthly dress allowance from the beast?” the princess offered, in the hope of taking her friend's mind off her plight.

“Oh no, you haven't been gambling again, have you, Lothíriel? Mama does disapprove so of women playing games of chance, and in male company too. What if she gets wind of it, and says that I am not allowed to meet you either? I simply couldn't bear it if I was denied the companionship of both the love of my life and my dearest friend.”

“Rather over-egging the pudding,” said Lothíriel bluntly. “And besides, you forget that your mother, though a lovely and well-meaning woman, is also the most fearful snob. My shortcomings must surely be more than compensated for by my parentage in her eyes.”

“But Arodon,” wailed Merilwen, returning to her original complaint. “What am I to do? He was expecting me to meet him beneath the willows down by the waterfall. He will think I have jilted him.”

“Nonsense,” Lothíriel said. “He has been courting you for how long now? Nigh on a year? He will not think you have thrown him over in an instant. I think he has the sense to realise that some external circumstance must have prevented you. And if he doesn't have that much sense, well then, he is hardly worth having.”

“Of course he's worth having,” sobbed Merilwen, grasping the wrong end of the stick entirely and clinging to it with a firm grip. “How can you say that he is not worth having?”

“It was a conditional statement… oh never mind.” Lothíriel back pedalled rapidly on catching sight of her friend's utterly bereft expression. As usual, though, she found it easier to come up with a practical plan than to sit and utter meaningless platitudes. “Look, is there anything I can do? Take a note to him, for instance?”

Merilwen instantly brightened. “Oh yes, that would be wonderful. But… won't you get into trouble for being seen going down to the soldier's camp? I know that you don't give a fig for the opinion of others, but surely that would be a step too far, even for you?”

But Lothíriel now had the bit between her teeth; she sensed an opportunity for subterfuge and adventure. “I have an old cloak of my cousin's. I shall put some breeches on, and my riding boots, and draw the cloak over my head, and no-one will know I am anything other than one of the Ithilien rangers.”

It was as if dark rain clouds had suddenly lifted, leaving a sunlit blue sky. Merilwen smiled and clapped her hands together in delight. “Oh, thank you so much! Let me just pen a note to him. Oh, truly, you are the best of friends… But are you sure the plan will work?”

“Of course,” Lothíriel replied breezily. “Like all the best plans it is so simple that there is no room for anything to go wrong.”


	3. Hawks and Swallows

Perhaps surprisingly, Lothíriel's insouciant approach to disguising herself had passed off without incident, and the note had duly been delivered to Captain Arodon. He had professed himself delighted. It turned out he too had been suffering agonies, but not of the sort that Merilwen had feared. He did not imagine for an instant that his beloved would be so perfidious as to have jilted him, but instead had been tortured by the idea that his darling Merilwen might have been captured by brigands. Lothíriel had managed to restrain herself from saying _'In the middle of the most densely populated military encampment this side of the Black Gates?'_ Instead she had contented herself with reflecting that he was so overly dramatic that he and Merilwen seemed a match made by the Valar themselves. 

Message delivered, she had tried to take her leave. But unfortunately escape had not been so easy. Arodon had given her a pleading look worthy of the spaniel which her brother used to retrieve water fowl when he went to try his archery skills on the bird flocks around Dol Amroth. Not only his face, but his auburn curls, bore an uncanny resemblance to Amrothos' hound. Fixed beneath the gaze of his mournful blue eyes, and against her better judgement, Lothíriel had offered her continuing services as a messenger. Still, she had consoled herself with the thought that it was not the most onerous of tasks. After all, this first foray had proved remarkably easy. Then, drawing her cloak over her head, she made her way swiftly back to her own tent. Duty to her friend done, Lothíriel had slept the sleep of the just.

The following morning, she woke in plenty of time for the planned hunt. Her maid appeared with one of her riding dresses. Lothíriel heaved a sigh. Given the chance, she much preferred to go out with her brothers, wearing breeches and riding astride, but alas, social niceties dictated a day spent riding side saddle. As soon as she was dressed, she left the tent and went down to the picket where her horse was kept. He was already there, saddled and ready, her groom beside him. Next to him stood Prince Imrahil's chief falconer and his assistant, with various birds, including her own beloved Rustroviel, sitting patiently, hooded, and with their jesses looped around the rail on which they perched.

Lothíriel pulled on her leather gauntlet and went to Rustroviel, making soothing clicking noises. The hawk hopped onto her wrist, and nipped at her gloved fingers. Lothíriel lifted the hood off her head and the bird looked around with interest. Her choice of bird always raised eyebrows: a lady hunting with a harris hawk was a most unusual sight. But the bird was so beautiful that Lothiriel had been unable to resist her when she had first come across her in the falconer's mew in her father's castle. It didn't matter how many times Prince Imrahil had tried to drop hints that a peregrine or gyrfalcon might be better suited to a lady, she had fallen in love with Rustroviel at first sight.

“Lothi, my dear, all ready for the day's excitement, I see!” She turned at the sound of her father's voice. Imrahil strode across the grass, a smile on his face. By his side were Erchirion, Amrothos and, to her surprise, the Rohirric king and his captain of the guard. 

“Got that mangy pigeon properly tethered, have you?” said Erchirion. 

“Mangy? Pigeon?” snorted his sister. “You are just ill disposed towards her because she took a chunk out of your finger when you were stupid enough to handle her without a glove on.”

She saw a flash of white teeth as the King of Rohan gave a brief grin at her words, quickly suppressed (she supposed) in the interests of diplomacy. He bowed, quite surprisingly elegantly for such a large man, then spoke, the grin reappearing.

“Rothos here tells me I should be polite and kiss your hand. But I think I'll pass, seeing as how I don't really want a chunk pecked off the end of my nose. Can we just assume that we've done all the polite stuff?” 

Suddenly Lothíriel found herself recalling the afternoon tea two days earlier, during the game of Thar-rhevia. Then, as now, he had been so unexpectedly and refreshingly blunt, and she found herself smiling back broadly.

“Probably a wise decision, sire. Rustroviel has no sense of decorum whatsoever, and is as like to bite a king as a knave. We shall indeed simply agree to take it as read that protocol was observed.”

The King grinned, and said, “Too right.” He paused for a moment, then said, “I guess I'd better go and get Firefoot.” He and Éothain turned and headed towards the Rohirric paddock, some couple of hundred paces down the hill.

“I have bad news for you, dear sister,” said Erchirion. “What was meant to have been a small, private party has turned into a melée. All the ladies of Gondor seem to have got wind of the expedition and discovered a sudden interest in falconry. I think their mothers may be imagining our friend Éomer tied to a length of rope and whirled round as a kind of lure.”

Lothíriel gave a snort of amusement at this image, then became serious as she realised that they were now going to have to potter at the most ridiculously slow pace imaginable, and that the incessant giggling would undoubtedly put any likely prey to flight long before they got anywhere close. 

“Cheer up, Lothi,” said Amrothos, correctly reading his sister's mood. “If it gets too dull we can pilfer one of Lady Siliveth's bonnets and launch it into the air on the end of an arrow for Rustroviel to savage.”

“Let me give you a leg up,” offered Erchirion, and boosted Lothíriel into the saddle. He looked up at her, appraising her mount thoughtfully. “New palfrey, Lothi? Looks rather a nice piece of horseflesh.”

“He's got a nice smooth gait,” his sister confirmed, “But he is perhaps a trifle too tame and smooth at times – not much of a turn of speed.”

“For which I thank the Valar every day,” interjected her father.

Eventually the assembled multitude were ready to leave. Not surprisingly, all hope of an early start had had to be abandoned. As Lothíriel had noticed on similar outings before, double the number of people at least quadrupled the amount of time it took to get ready – and a large number of people only there to be seen in the right social setting extended the time still further. But at last they rode off, heading steadily uphill through the forest for a patch of open moorland just above the tree line.

Somehow, Lothíriel found herself riding alongside the King of Rohan. He was pleasant enough company, though it seemed that he was as interested in swapping jokes and friendly insults with her brothers as he was in conversing with her. Lothíriel wondered for a moment whether she should find this attitude offensive: after all, the Siliveths of this world would expect him to pay court to a woman, hanging off her every word. But then, with a certain degree of amusement, she decided that in fact she liked the current arrangement admirably. She was extremely tired of the endless string of admirers who offered her mind-numbingly unoriginal compliments and vacuous observations on the weather. It was very refreshing to ride alongside a man who seemed to view her as simply part of a wider party of people, and treat her accordingly, almost like one of her brothers. Almost, but not quite. Obviously he did not know her as well, so did not resort to the level of banter he engaged in with them (though she suspected even this was being toned down slightly in deference to her presence). And, even better than his easy manner with her was the fact that his presence seemed to deter her collection of unoriginal, vacuous suitors.

The hawking was, as Lothíriel had feared, disappointing. The society butterflies, both men and women, who had attached themselves to the party, made far too much noise and set the game birds to flight too early for the hawks. Rustroviel did, however, manage to bag a brace of plump ducks. After an hour or so, the butterflies began to get restive, and it was agreed that perhaps it was time to return to Cormallen for luncheon.

It had not escaped Lothíriel's notice that Éomer's captain seemed to have attached himself to Lady Siliveth for the morning. When the group finally returned to the tent-city in Cormallen, Éothain dismounted swiftly, and was (to Lothíriel's amusement) beside Siliveth's horse in a trice. She had to hide her face behind Rustroviel to cover up her laughter as the Rohir held up his hands ready to lift Siliveth from the saddle. Surely he must know that this simply was not done in Gondor. Or, if he did not know, surely Siliveth must be able to find a diplomatic way of declining his offer. But no! Siliveth slid from her horse with a bold smile on her face, allowing him to hold her waist as he lifted her down, even going so far as to rest her hands on his shoulders for balance, and leave them there for several moments longer than was proper.

“Why, lord Éothain,” Siliveth said, breathily, peeping up at him from beneath coyly lowered lashes, “It is most kind of you to help me, but, according to our customs, somewhat forward.” She allowed just the hint of a smile to curl the corner of her mouth, leaving him in no doubt that the censure was merely for form's sake.

“Well,” Éothain drawled, giving her a lazy smile in return. “I'm a forward kind of a bloke. Even by the customs of my people.”

“Oh, really,” replied Siliveth, raising a shapely dark eyebrow. “And now I am most shocked.” Shock notwithstanding, she tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “Elbereth be praised, at least I am a married woman, so no-one can misconstrue your attentions towards me.”

Lothíriel, who had heard this exchange only too clearly, as had most of the people in the immediate vicinity, sincerely doubted whether anyone was in danger of misconstruing the conversation. How long, she wondered, would it take word to filter back to Bronaer? Siliveth, however, held her head as high as an empress, and allowed Éothain to escort her back to her tent, hanging on every word he uttered, and giving little silvery laughs at appropriate moments. At the entrance to the tent, he bowed deeply, and having received her farewell curtsey in reply, walked away back towards the Rohirrim encampment with a distinct swagger.

~o~O~o~

Éomer sat back on the grass after a pleasant meal. He would have quite liked to have eaten with Prince Imrahil's family, but got the distinct impression they wanted a bit of time in private, so had made his excuses and had himself spent some time alone in the cool shadow beneath a large tree near his tent. As he let himself be soothed by watching the dancing, dappled patches of light and shade, he realised he rather relished the peace. Much as he enjoyed the company of his erstwhile comrades, and more especially, of their sister, it was good to find a chance to take stock.

On the whole, he felt the morning had gone well. There was no denying that Lothíriel was an attractive young woman – very much so – but also no denying that she was very young. However, the trip had been strangely low-key. She showed no signs of flirting with him or pursuing him in any way; in fact, if anything, she seemed to have adopted him as an additional brother. And he congratulated himself that he had managed to squash any tendency he might have felt to flirt with her, treating her in return simply as the younger sister of his friends. All in all, what could have been a very awkward, or possibly dangerous situation had turned out to be a cheerful, light-hearted outing instead.

His self-congratulations were interrupted by the arrival of Éothain, who sat down on the grass beside him, tankard of small-beer in hand. 

“Hot day, isn't it?” his friend offered. Then sniffed and said “Blardy hot, in fact. You smell worse than a dead donkey.”

“You still haven't got the hang of this 'you're the king and I'm the captain of the guard' thing, have you?” Éomer said with a grin.

“Think of it as the sort of friendly advice a trusted counsellor would offer to stop you offending the delicate nose of your very attractive princess. Or take it that I haven't got the hang of it at all, and still think of you first and foremost as a mate.”

“Glad to hear it,” replied Éomer, before adding, “She's not my princess, she's my mates' little sister.”

“Yeah, whatever. You still could do with a wash. How about taking yourself down to that pool we found last week? I'll join you. I need a wash too before tonight's dance. Might snag myself a pretty dark-haired girl if I don't reek like an orc's armpit.”

“Fair enough,” said Éomer, and got to his feet. The two of them strolled down the hill towards a group of rowan trees which flanked the river bank. At this point, the river running down from the high peaks above emerged from its rocky gorge, where it had cascaded white and foaming over waterfalls, and gushed in torrents through boulders. Now it flowed, smooth and unruffled, across the gentler slopes at the side of the field of Cormallen. One place in particular was a great favourite with the assembled Gondorians: the water tumbled over a set of smooth slabs into a plunge pool with a wider reach beyond, broad enough that the current slackened, deep enough to swim in, and some thirty or so yards long. The reach curved gently, its outer edge abutting the side where the pleasant meadows lay, with a swathe of shingle and shallow edge.

As Éomer approached he heard feminine giggles drifting on the breeze, then, on reaching the top of the grassy slope which ran down to the river, saw a number of figures arrayed in bright primrose yellows, sky blues and emerald greens, paddling in the shallows. The Gondorian women seemed to favour long, loose trousers stopping just above the ankle, with flowing dresses coming down to mid calf, presumably to protect their modesty. Éomer grinned at the contrast with his home country: memories of swimming with his sister, who would cheerfully strip to her small clothes and leap (or get pushed) into the icy river near Edoras. Still, if the giggles were anything to go by, they seemed to be enjoying themselves, though it all seemed rather sedate for his tastes. 

Hopefully, he scanned the crowd below. He could see the Lady Siliveth, and the Lady Merilwen, but (with a sudden and unexpected pang of disappointment) not the princess. Then a movement caught the corner of his eye and he turned to look downstream. Perched on a boulder high above the stream was Amrothos, wearing only his small clothes, and next to him in what appeared to be a pair of her brother's old breeches, cropped off rather roughly just below the knee, and one of his old shirts, was Lothíriel.

Éomer had learned some Sindarin from his mother, and (with the intense fascination of most boys nearing their teens) when at court in Edoras had spent considerable amounts of time perusing the lexicon in the small library looking for “naughty words”. Even so, he couldn't quite believe his ears. He could have sworn he heard Lothíriel say, “Last one to the slabs is a Kinslayer's cock.”

Then she dived like a swallow from the rock, closely followed by Amrothos. Éomer wasn't sure quite what he was expecting – some sort of splashy, awkward, stuttering stroke. But instead, the princess surfaced some seven or so yards away, then proceeded to carve through the water with long, efficient, elegant strokes, beating her brother by a comfortable margin. She placed her hands flat on the shelf of rock and pushed her body up, flinging her leg up beside her hand and springing lightly from the water. Éomer watched, transfixed, as rivulets of water ran down her body, the wet shirt now clinging to her every curve. Amrothos approached, and she dipped her toe in the water to splash him: he reached out and wrapped his hand round her ankle. With a firm tug, he pulled her, arms windmilling, back into the stream. She landed with a great splash, then surfaced, laughing.

“Nice view, isn't it?” said a voice behind him. Éomer turned to find Bronaer just behind him, a slightly crooked and knowing smile on his handsome face. Suddenly Éomer felt uncomfortable. Yes, he'd been admiring Lothíriel, who wouldn't. But somehow Bronaer's face made him feel that he was leching, not admiring. He felt as though something straightforward, innocent even, had been spoiled (though he'd be the first to admit his liking for Lothíriel's clinging garments was not exactly innocent – but nonetheless, it was somehow an honest liking, and Bronaer's... well, there was nothing honest about that at all).

Bronaer clearly didn't notice Éomer's slight stiffness of manner, and carried on in much his usual manner, as if assuming the King of Rohan was as interested in his chosen type of banter as he was. “She has a devil-may-care attitude to propriety, doesn't she? I bet she's a right goer, too, if only one can get past her brothers. They keep a close eye on her – well, they'd have to, wouldn't they, given how she behaves? Look at the way her shirt's wet through – bet if we were a bit closer, there'd be nothing left to the imagination at all...”

“Yeah, well I guess it's a good thing we're not closer then,” said Éomer, shortly.

“Good grief, man, don't tell me you horselords are prudes! I don't believe that for an instant. And I can't imagine that you're defending her honour, because, come on, a maid who disports herself like that clearly hasn't got any honour, and frankly probably isn't a maid either.”

“All she's doing is enjoying a swim with her brother on a hot day, for Béma's sake! It's not like she's parading outside some dodgy tavern touting for business. And her brothers are mates of mine.” Éomer could feel himself beginning to lose his temper, and strode off down the slope to the water's edge where, he presumed, Bronaer's comments would be tempered by having his wife and the rest of the court ladies within earshot.

Éothain followed behind, gaze switching from Bronaer to Siliveth and back with a thoughtful look on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~o~O~o~
> 
> I need to give a big thank you to the Ladies of the Garden of Ithilien, for encouragement and comments on drafts (as always, mistakes are mine).
> 
> Rustroviel is borrowed from my work place - we have a Harris Hawk who comes in a couple of times a week to control the bird population because our building is under the flight path for the nearby airport. She is very beautiful, and I always wish I could stroke her, but I fear that if I tried I might suffer the same fate as Amrothos.


	4. Blue Satin

Now safely back in the large tent she was sharing with her parents, Lothíriel reflected that her maid was more than likely to take a fit of the vapours on seeing the state her charge was in. Her hair was dripping wet, and even inside the tent, warmed by the afternoon sun, it would be the devil to dry. Furthermore, her hair was liable to lapse into wild, unruly curls when treated so cavalierly. Not to mention the fact that the dress her maid had set aside for her had three-quarter sleeves, and she now sported quite an angry looking graze on her left forearm from colliding with a rock. It served her right, she supposed, dodging out of Rothos' way as he splashed water at her. Alas, her dire predictions about her maid's reaction turned out to be only too accurate.

“Nienna's mercy, your highness, just look at the state of you!”

Lothíriel gave Miriel a slightly feeble attempt at a cheeky grin, more for form's sake than in any genuine hope of winning her round, but her maid was having none of it. It occurred to the princess that while her friends seemed to have maids much the same ages as themselves (and equally flighty) her mother had played a blinder in appointing Miriel: she was solidly, sensibly middle aged, and although genuinely fond of her charge, not the slightest bit inclined to let that fondness serve as an excuse to allow Lothíriel to pull the wool over her eyes.

Miriel sat Lothíriel on a low chair and set to work with a towel, squeezing water out of her hair and attempting to comb the tangles out of it, all the time muttering imprecations on the Princess' wildness and clucking like a mother hen. Eventually, with Lothíriel's hair now considerably drier and less reminiscent of a bird's nest, Miriel finished her lengthy speech with the words, “And that graze on your arm. The primrose silk will never do… The sleeves stop at the elbow.”

“And may Elbereth be praised for that,” said Lothíriel will feeling, “I never could see what possessed my grandmama to purchase such a material for me. Yellow simply makes my complexion sallow.”

“I think the blue – the sleeves are fitted and reach your wrists.” Miriel bustled over to one of the large wooden clothes presses which had arrived by wagon the day before, and retrieved the garment. She gave it a good shake and hung it from the rail above Lothíriel's camp bed, to allow the creases to fall out. This done, she busied herself arranging Lothíriel's hair, with an elaborate mithril net set with pearls from the coast near her home. Then, raven tresses suitably adorned, Miriel set about lacing Lothíriel into a dark blue satin overdress, with embroidery in silver threads to match the hair net – delicate swans and tiny roses set with more tiny pearls.

“Why, your highness, against the odds, I believe we have managed to make you presentable.”

Lothíriel smiled at this: she was used to Miriel's back handed compliments, and correctly interpreted her words to mean that she looked very well indeed. This was confirmed moments later when the curtain round her sleeping quarters was swept aside, and her mother, Princess Isteth, entered.

“Oh my dear, you look simply lovely,” said her mother, with a broad smile. “Are you ready to set off?”

“So early, mama?”

“I believe the ball has already started! I think they want to start early so that the lanterns which have been set about the grove show to best advantage as the sun sets,” Princess Isteth explained. “Your father and brothers are waiting outside.”

Lothíriel followed her mother from the tent. Isteth took her husband's arm, and Lothíriel took Amrothos'.

“Tulkas' rod, we match!” Amrothos said in tones of disgust. Lothíriel looked him up and down. He was indeed also wearing Dol Amroth blue, though velvet rather than satin, with sleeves worked with silver swans. Lothíriel giggled. 

“As Aunt Ivriniel would say, the only difference between looking magnificent and looking ridiculous is one's bearing. Stick your nose in the air and make sure you look down it towards all and sundry, and everyone will think we did it deliberately! Perhaps we shall set a new style, dear brother.”

“I'd rather not.”

“Well, it is too late to change now.”

Amrothos led his sister through the tents, across the meadow and into the edge of the woods. As promised by Princess Isteth, Lothíriel found that a large grove had been transformed into a woodland ball room. Delicately wrought lanterns sparkled in the branches of the trees, while the ground had been covered with canvas sheets – old sails, Lothíriel suspected. Servants stood beside tables piled high with trays of delicacies, or lined with goblets and bottles of fine wines. Serving maids drifted through the crowds bearing trays, offering goblets and food to the assembled host. Round the side of the glade, comfortable chairs had been set out for the matrons to watch proceedings; a band beneath a large beech tree supplied music for their daughters and their suitors to dance to.

Amrothos shot Lothíriel a glance as the crowd parted before them. “Fashionably late,” he murmured with a grin. “Trust pater to judge these things to a nicety.”

Prince Imrahil, resplendent in deep pink robes, and Princess Isteth, in a fetching dark green, made their way to a dais which had been constructed at the opposite side of the grove from the band. On it were various thrones, which were largely ignored by their occupants. King Elessar was foremost among the group, but even from the other side of the dancing floor, Lothíriel could make out smaller figures whom she assumed must be the halflings of whose heroism she had heard so much, and a figure almost as short in stature, whom she remembered from the game of Thar-rhevia – the dwarf, Gimli. Beside him stood the tall figure of the elf, Legolas, beautiful beyond mortal ken, and what seemed to be two more dark-haired elves. And to one side stood the familiar, tawny haired figure of the King of Rohan.

Lothíriel found herself slightly, and uncharacteristically, tongue-tied as she was introduced to the ring bearer and his companions. However, she rallied on being introduced to her new king's foster brothers, surely the most handsome beings she had ever encountered. And she was positively bowled over when one of them, Lord Elladan, requested the next dance. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw Éomer watching her flustered acceptance with a twinkle of amusement in his eye.

~o~O~o~

Some hour or so later, Éomer found himself stranded in no man's land half way down the side of the dance floor, cut off from comradely support. He looked about himself with something approaching panic. From his right hand side, he could see the statuesque auburn haired beauty who had importuned him for a dance earlier in the evening. He didn't understand much about Gondorian society, but Amrothos had made sure he understood this much: to dance twice in the same evening with the same lady was to raise certain expectations in her bosom and in the minds of her male kin. And he got the distinct impression the lady was all too ready to allow him access to her bosom – both with a view to raising expectations therein, and possibly with a view to other, less metaphorical activities.

Meanwhile, diagonally to his left, he saw the approach of Lady Errisil, the slightly sallow skinned, dark-haired daughter of the Duke of Pinnath Gelin. (Had his Sindarin been more fluent, no doubt he would have smiled at the irony of her being named Errisil, “doe-maiden”, for the animal which came to his mind when he took in her long face was not so much the liquid eyed grace of a deer in the woods, but more the sturdy work-a-day outline of a pack horse). Eomer reflected that he had not yet danced with her, so was in the clear in that respect. On the other hand, he had held her horse's bridle on the hawking trip earlier in the day, and for all he knew, as far as the Gondorians were concerned, that could be tantamount to hoiking her skirts round her waist and setting to with a will. In his mind's eye, he could already picture the Duke, cross-bow in hand, presiding over a hasty wedding.

He cast around the room in desperation, and caught Amrothos' eye. Hastily, he set off towards the young man, studiously avoiding eye contact with either of the two women. In the course of the previous hour and a half, he had watched with much amusement as Amrothos flirted brazenly with all and sundry. As a court insider, it seemed the youngest scion of Gondor's foremost seafaring principality knew just how close to the wind he could sail without capsizing... or compromising himself or the woman and thus being forced into a courtship he did not want. However, tonight, to Éomer's surprise, Amrothos was not deep in conversation with a young beauty. Instead, he was talking to a stately looking woman in late middle-age, her hair more silver than jet.

Amrothos beamed at him. “Allow me to present my aunt, the Lady Ivriniel. Madam, his majesty the King of Rohan.”

The lady inclined her elderly head in a patrician manner somewhat at odds with her rather homely visage. She bowed, just the right amount to pay respect to protocol, but with enough reserve in the gesture to indicate that she kept her council as to how much respect he as a man, rather than as a walking rank, deserved. Éomer was used to making down-to-earth judgements in a straightforward way, and it suddenly struck him that that it was strange he of all people should read so much into a simple bow of the head. Then he realised what was puzzling him: her slightly dowdy appearance, with the thickened waist of middle age and softening around her jaw, was contradicted by the sharp intelligence in her grey eyes. Then she smiled, a disarming, gentle, seemingly uncomplicated smile.

“Your majesty, a delight. I had the pleasure of knowing your grandfather when I was a child, before he returned to Rohan. A kind and lordly man, and very indulgent towards small children.” Her eyes positively twinkled.

Éomer felt somewhat placed on the back foot. “Thank you, madam,” was all the response he could muster.

“My aunt was just telling me of her adventures in the southern borders of the debatable lands,” said Amrothos.

“Oh, I'm sure the king does not want to hear the trivial reminiscences of an old lady,” Ivriniel said, with a wry smile.

“Nah, I'd love to hear about your travels. I haven't had much chance to hear about the lands further afield than Gondor. I mean,” Eomer added, realising his response to date had sounded a bit too casual, “It'd be a pleasure to hear about the complexities of new cultures.” He mentally congratulated himself on how diplomatic this response sounded, only to wonder a moment later if he had in fact over-egged the pudding, for he thought he detected just the slightest twitch of a grey eyebrow. 

“Well now, what a polite young man you are,” said Ivriniel, her face a mask of bland affability. “Let me see, Rothos, where was I?”

“You had been forced by sandstorms to take refuge in the fortified city of the King of Harnen-Falas.”

“Ah yes. I remember it well. He laid on the most extravagant banquet for myself and my retinue, and bade me sit at his left hand. You can imagine my sheer horror when the first dish arrived. It was a plate of barely cooked sheep's eyes. The king assured me most solemnly that this was a great delicacy, normally reserved for the greatest of their warriors and certainly not to be enjoyed by mere women, and that therefore he did me great honour by treating me as a man and offering it to me.” Her nose wrinkled at the memory.

Amrothos let out a cackle of glee and said, “Tulkas' rod, aunt, what did you do.”

“Language, my dear boy, language,” said Ivriniel, but her tone indicated this was more of an automatic response than any genuine outrage. She continued, with an entirely straight face, “At this point I assured the king that it was indeed far too great an honour for me as a mere woman, and that I should consider myself honoured and privileged if he would allow me to feed the sheep's eyeballs to him. So I spent the rest of the evening spearing the ghastly things with my fork and popping them into the king's mouth. By the end of the evening I became almost worried that I had overdone the show of deference and the old codger might propose, but fortunately his tastes leaned towards the considerably younger and more voluptuous.” She gave a smile. “I was never the sort of woman designed to lay honey-traps. My strengths lay elsewhere, in fact, one might say, almost in my very ordinariness. I always carried about me the air of a down-at-heel minor noblewoman seeking employ as an itinerant governess to young ladies. No one ever suspects a governess.”

“No one suspects a governess of what?” asked Éomer, his curiosity piqued.

“Why, of being a spy, of course.” 

Éomer almost spluttered his wine in his surprise.

~o~O~o~

Lothíriel was having a simply splendid time. She had danced with both of the charming half-elven foster brothers of her new king. Each was as beautiful as the other, and, what was more, they were the most graceful dancers she had ever encountered. They were also, to her relief, as eloquent as they were beautiful, for she detested dancing in silence. She thoroughly enjoyed their witty conversation during each set.

But even more fun had been the point at which the band had struck up the dashing white sergeant. At first her heart had sunk as she saw several of the young women round the edge of the dance floor cast assessing looks in her direction, then at the King of Rohan, then back to her. Clearly there was more than one lady present who thought her rank might be their entrée to the exalted social circle of royalty, and a dance which required two women for every man was clearly the way they thought they might effect their coup d'etat. However, it seemed that the King of Rohan was deep in conversation with Aunt Ivriniel, laughing heartily at whatever it was that the lady was saying. Lothíriel grinned. Aunt Ivvy was her favourite aunt by some way, so it warmed her to think that the King of Rohan had taken a shine to her. And it delighted her to think that the predatory maidens of Gondor were having their noses put out of joint by a lady in her middle years.

And then Lothíriel had her brainwave. She had danced with both of the sons of Elrond, albeit separately; surely she could dance with two of the halflings. Grinning from ear to ear, she skipped merrily to the dais where the throne was set, and asked Samwise and Pippin if they would care to accompany a dashing lady sergeant onto the dance floor. The two hobbits agreed with alacrity, and she seized a hand each and pulled them into the throng, taking a starting position right in front of the band. The best thing about the whole unlikely arrangement was that she could see the disapproving looks of the matrons, but also the look of discombobulation on their faces; the matrons knew that this was a situation of which they most heartily disapproved, but none of them could quite put their finger on why exactly it was that they disapproved so strongly.

~o~O~o~

Éomer could not stop grinning. The stream of astonishing anecdotes the Lady Ivriniel had supplied had left him both impressed and amused. And, equally importantly, had saved him from the attentions of the terrifyingly marriageable maidens of Gondor and their even more terrifying mothers. Amrothos, having heard these stories many times before, had politely excused himself early in the proceedings. Éomer, however, was quite captivated. He had left the lady's side only to fetch her another glass of sherry, a fortified wine for which she seemed to have an inordinate fondness. As he passed round the edge of the glade in search of one of the serving staff, he suddenly heard a male voice nearby, then a female giggle. He did not mean to stare, but couldn't help recognising Amrothos and the rather flighty woman who had been riding beside Éothain earlier that day.

“Oh, you cannot imagine how delightful it is to be in the company of a man who makes one laugh...” The woman's voice was breathy.

“And your laugh is so beautiful, my lady. To elicit it is a pleasure.” Amrothos' baritone voice sounded, to Éomer's ear, somehow less natural than it did when he was joking around with Éothain.

“Why, Prince Amrothos, you are too kind. You will quite turn this matron's head if you are not careful.” She was almost simpering now.

“Matron? Hardly!”

“Are you not forgetting that I am a respectable married woman, your highness?” There was a teasing note to her voice. Éomer had the distinct impression that far from being a reminder, the comment was meant precisely as an invitation to forget.

“Alas for we poor men of Gondor, that the brightest flower of her womanhood should be beyond our reach...” _Blardy hell_ , thought Éomer, _that's laying it on a bit thick._ But to his amazement, it seemed to be doing the trick.

“Oh, my lord, you are too kind. Such a shame my beloved husband does not hold me in quite such high esteem.” It was really quite a performance. She allowed the slightest of catches in her voice before rallying, “But of course, it is only to be expected that a man should take his wife for granted. After all, he cannot pay full attention to all the women in his life, and his spouse is, so to speak, a captive audience.” Éomer had to hand it to her; she managed to tread the line between just the tiniest hint of bitterness and a bravura display of wounded courage. Here was artistry worthy of the fine traditions of story telling by the bards of Edoras. Amrothos was duly reeled in, like a plump salmon on the end of a fishing line cast by an expert fisherman.

“My lady, you deserve better. You were not made to be taken for granted; you were made to have your praises sung alongside the great beauties of history… Siliveth,” Amrothos breathed her name like a benediction, “Siliveth, whose name deserves to be writ among the stars.” 

_Strewth_ , thought Éomer. _Surely he can't mean that… and surely she can't be so soft in the head as to be taken in by it…_ But at this point Amrothos, in complete contradiction to all the advice he had given Éomer, lifted her hand and softly imprinted a kiss – a real kiss, not a near encounter with the tip of his nose – on her knuckles. Then, gently turning her hand over, he pressed his lips to her palm, and finally (with an upward glance at her face to make sure his attentions were welcome) brushed them lingeringly against the pulse point on her wrist.

“Oh, and now you have made me blush… But hearken… I think I hear voices approaching. You and I must part for now… But let us not make it 'farewell', but rather 'until the morrow'.” She let her hand slide gracefully from his grip, leaving her finger tips within his for several heartbeats, before flitting gracefully away with a rustling of silken skirts. Beneath the trees, she paused just for a moment, glancing back and bringing her fingertips to her lips before blowing a kiss towards Amrothos.

_Blardy hell… These Gondy bastards claim to be all about propriety… but really they're a right randy bunch of shaggers._ Shaking his head, Éomer slipped away in the opposite direction to renew his quest for sherry for the Lady Ivriniel.


	5. The Mathematics of Marriage

Éomer woke reasonably early, despite the late night and the wine he had consumed, feeling nothing more than a slightly muzzy head. Even that was soon dealt with by a bowl of porridge, a tankard of small beer and a visit to Firefoot. He shooed his groom away, and set to himself with a brush, humming gently to the stallion as he did so. Grooming finished, he offered an apple which disappeared in a trice, and gave the horse's head an affectionate rub as Firefoot tried to investigate the nooks and crannies in his clothing for more treats. 

“That's the lot, boy,” he said, giving the horse a pat on the withers before heading back to his tent. There he sat down, armed with a quill, to take on the far more arduous task of writing a letter. 

_Dear Éowyn,  
I got your message (via the Steward's letter to his cousin), and I'm glad to hear you're feeling better, though it's sad that you don't feel up to travelling yet. I think you'd like some of the stuff here. It's very pretty – a big meadow between the forest and the river. You'd definitely like the jousting and hunting I think, though I guess you'd hate the society stuff. I'm not sure I like it much. You have no idea how complicated just having a jig around a dance floor is in this place._

Éomer paused. He had not entirely realised until he set pen to parchment just how discomfited he felt at the complexities of the Gondorian court. He ran his hand through his hair, pushing the loose strands back from his forehead. Éowyn was still recovering from coming bloody near to dying – he needed to write something entertaining to her, not whinge like… well, whinge like a Gondy bastard.

_Imrahil and his sons have made me feel at home, though. Amrothos in particular is a really great bloke – and seems to have become mates with Éothain._

Another thought struck Éomer, one which somehow should have been obvious but had only just reached the surface of his mind. 

_Perhaps next summer I'll invite them to come to Edoras and introduce you to them – though you've already met Imrahil of course… actually thinking about it, I suppose they'll come for Uncle's funeral – Aragorn seems to think that pretty much all of them will come to show their respects. (And so they bloody well should, but I'm glad I didn't have to ask. Aragorn's a straight up bloke who's always going to do the right thing)._

Éomer looked at the last words on the paper. Bugger! That was not what he should have written. He didn't want to pour salt in his sister's wounds. Should he tear up the letter and start again? Béma, writing a letter was hard enough once, he didn't think he could face doing it again. He ploughed on.

_Like I said, Erchirion and Amrothos are good blokes – though Erchirion's a bit of a ladies' man._

Why had he written that?

_But 'Rothos is okay. I think you'd like him._

Blaardy hell – now it looked like he was trying to set Éowyn up. He tapped the end of the quill absently against his teeth. Though… come to think of it, maybe that wasn't the daftest idea he'd ever had. Amrothos was good in a fight, likeable, honest… An uncomfortable thought hit him: likeable, honest-ish, but not above flirting with another man's wife.

He looked at the paper for several long moments. Yeah… nah… bugger it, it'd only been a kiss on the hand. But still, perhaps he should change the subject so it didn't look too much like he was trying to match-make.

_They've got a sister too, Lothíriel. She's very pretty, but very young. Seems quite bright and lively, but it's hard to tell with Gondy sheilas what's really going on. She beat us all at cards, and she likes breaking rules – swimming in her brother's breeches, made me think of you. But most of the girls here seem to put most of their effort into snaring husbands, then playing complicated social games. None of them seem to do anything useful or use their brains much. Well, other than to keep track of all the complicated gossip – and it is really complicated. So-and-so waved her fan in just such a way at such-and-such's uncle's second cousin's younger son, so that means they'll be married come Yuletide, that sort of thing. It's all really silly. I can't tell whether Lothiriel's just as silly, or whether there's more to her than just being good at cards. But I miss the Riddermark, where the sheilas are straightforward and honest, and most importantly, down-to-earth. They put their effort into the important stuff. Can you imagine Elfhelm's lady, Hilde, worrying whether her daughters were holding their fans at just the right angle?_

Éomer paused once more. He was in danger of whinging again. Best to try to finish the damn letter somehow. It was probably the worst letter ever written – meandering, pointless and stupid – but there was no way he was abandoning it now.

_Anyway, like I said, I miss you. And if you change your mind and want to come and see the jousting and stuff, I'd love to see you._

_Your loving brother,  
Éomer_

Éomer looked down at this masterpiece of the epistolatory art form and sighed. It was a pile of crap. But better that than no letter at all. His brow furrowed, he folded the parchment, dripped wax on it and pressed his seal to it. Best to send it as soon as he could, before he thought better of it.

~o~O~o~

While Éomer struggled with his letter, a few hundred yards away, Lothíriel drew the dark green cloak more closely around her. Her last visit to the soldier's encampment had been at dusk, but she was a little worried that her disguise might not pass muster in the bright light of morning. And the light was, indeed, very bright. Too bright. Or perhaps it was that she had had one goblet of wine too many the night before. Still, it really had been a splendid occasion, culminating in dancing an eightsome reel with Gimli, who turned out to be surprisingly spry and light on his feet.

Though she had to admit (with a little inward smile) that the previous dance, with the King of Rohan, had been the most enjoyable. The dance had been the very latest thing, all the rage in Minas Tirith the summer before the war. It involved, most daringly, the man putting his arm around the lady's waist. The inward smile became a grin as it occurred to her that she must have scandalized all and sundry; unmarried young ladies were not meant to dance this dance. Of course, a gentleman of the Gondorian court would have known this, and would not have asked. But King Éomer was not to know that. Out of the corner of her eye, she had seen her aunt, eyes twinkling, and just for a moment it had crossed her mind to wonder whether Princess Ivriniel had put the king up to asking. 

Her thoughts from a few days earlier, of the king dancing a hornpipe on the quay outside a tavern, flitted back into her mind. She had been totally wrong. Despite his size he had turned out to be a graceful and accomplished dancer. And the dance was very pleasant. But (and here she felt herself turn a little pink at the memory) she now had a bit of an inkling as to why maidens were discouraged from this particular dance. There had been something very nice indeed about the warmth of Éomer's hand in the small of her back, the subtle, controlled strength implicit in his arm as he steered her round the dance floor. Really, if one was not forewarned by the fact that most of the eligible young ladies of Gondor were already swooning over the man, a girl could have her head quite turned by that sort of thing.

Instead, Lothíriel gave her head a bit of a shake, and forced her thoughts back to the task in hand. Her hand reached to her pocket, and she breathed a sigh of relief as her fingertips met the folded corner of the piece of parchment Merilwen had given her earlier. She had arrived just as her friend was putting the finishing touches to it – a wordy letter, clearly – Merilwen had even seen fit to cross it. How Arodon would decipher it without doing lasting damage to his eyesight was anyone's guess. 

It suddenly struck her that her slight hangover could form part of the disguise, for surely there would be more than a few men in the camp this fine morning who would have their hoods pulled forwards over their faces to cut down the glare of the sun. Congratulating herself on this thought, she strode down towards the camp with renewed confidence. However, unknown to her, her progress had been spotted by a keen pair of eyes. Beneath the awning of a tent, Bronaer watched the slender figure leaving the group of tents reserved for the first circle of Gondor's nobility, and heading for the soldiers' encampment.

He puzzled over the figure. Slight – he'd bet his wife's dress allowance that beneath that cloak was a woman. The cloak was that of an Ithilien Ranger – an unusual garment for a lass to have picked up. Her sweetheart's? Curiosity piqued, he started to follow at a discreet distance, while he continued to mull over the possibilities. Bird of paradise? Unlikely at this time in the morn. They usually plied their trade in the evening, and slept late to recuperate from their labours. More likely then to be a serving girl going to meet her sweetheart. Then he caught a glimpse of her feet beneath the hem of the cloak. Well made lady's riding boots, of a very expensive soft leather and exquisite workmanship: Bronaer, who always expected his wife to be turned out in the first style of elegance, and also spent a small fortune on his mistresses' wardrobes, knew quality when he saw it. Aha. This was proving to be interesting in the extreme. A young woman of quality, sneaking down to the soldiers' camp. If only he could find out who it was, this could open up all sorts of intriguing possibilities. The young woman would want to keep this quiet. If she was of good family but not the best, then at the very least, there was the pleasing prospect of trading certain liberties with her person in exchange for his silence. After all, if she had already compromised her virtue to this extent, then (as the old soldier's saying had it), “no one missed a slice off a cut loaf.” If, on the other hand, her rank was higher, there might be all sorts of interesting ways in which her fear of his disclosure could be turned to his political advantage. And (here he gave a vulpine, tight-lipped smile) to other forms of advantage as well.

Mulling over the possibilities, he continued in his covert pursuit. Eventually, she came to a halt outside a small tent, and called out softly. An undistinguished looking young man with a naive air and unfortunately ginger hair emerged (Bronaer smiled to himself – surely, played right, if that was his competition, the girl should be only too happy to acquiesce to his advances). The girl handed over a piece of paper. More and more interesting – so she was the go-between for the spotty youth and his real sweetheart. A veritable bramble thicket of complexities and possibilities to exploit lay before him. Then the woman's hood slipped back, and it was all Bronaer could do not to shout Caer ar minib! The Princess Lothíriel! Here was an opportunity beyond his wildest imaginings.

~o~O~o~

Lothiriel's parents, however, were blissfully unaware of her new pastime acting as Merilwen's messenger. Unaware of the storm that was brewing on the horizon, they were involved in the much more quotidien task of clearing up misunderstandings about their joint social engagements.

“Sadly I cannot join you for lunch, my dear. The King has suggested we take the opportunity of a private meal with King Éomer in order to discuss provisioning Rohan over the coming winter. The country is in a parlous state after the ravages the Wizard Saruman's Uruks wreaked upon its western provinces.” Imrahil rested his hand on his wife's shoulder in a conciliatory gesture, and she laid her own on top of his fingers to indicate that the apology was accepted.

“Surely such a meeting is a formality.”

“I very much hope it will be,” said Imrahil with a slight frown. “It should be obvious what the way forward is. However, although King Éomer is very much in need of our help, the worry which I can't quite dismiss is that he may have a streak of pride that prevents him asking. The trick will be to persuade him that while he is in need of our help, we are infinitely in his debt, and thus the scales will balance.”

“But your reports of him so far have painted him as a shrewd tactician and strategist.”

“On the battlefield, yes, and that is hardly surprising, for he was raised a soldier. But as to the other duties of kingship, I simply have no idea of how well or ill informed he will prove to be. After all, running the civil affairs of a country in peacetime – raising taxes in an equitable way, ensuring that provisions are distributed fairly in times of hardship – is altogether a more complex business.”

“And running it in wartime even more so,” said his wife dryly.

“I have not forgotten, dearest, how hard you and Lothíriel worked to keep Dol Amroth safe and provisioned throughout, and your foresight in anticipating the needs of the army.”

Isteth smiled, suitably mollified. “Still, it is a shame you shall not be hear for lunch, for I was rather hoping for your moral support,” retorted Princess Isteth. “The dowager duchess of Pinnath Gelin has contrived to inveigle an invitation to join me, and you know how she does go on. And you have such a charming way with her. With me, she will be shrewish; with you she would behave like a coquettish debutante.”

“I am far from convinced that an eighty year old debutante is preferable to sincere shrewishness, my love.” Imrahil was far too polite to shudder, but the almost imperceptible wrinkling of his nose gave his feelings away every bit as clearly.

“That's all very well for you to say, but you do not have to put up with the shrewishness.”

“What do you suppose her purpose is, in arranging a private tête-à-tête?” 

“I rather think,” said Isteth, “That she intends to establish that our daughter will not be competing directly with her granddaughter in the marriage market.”

Imrahil seemed to be brought up short by this piece of information. He frowned slightly, as though considering the matter for the first time. “And will she be able to establish this fact?”

“Well, you have to admit it is rather an obvious match to encourage,” said the Princess.

“But would it suit Lothíriel? She is still young...”

“Ah, I think it is perhaps more that you still think of her as young. But as for her feelings, I cannot quite see. She seems comfortable in King Éomer's company, though how much of that is because he is friends with our sons and she has adopted him as an additional brother, I don't know. She has danced with him – and he is a handsome man – but I do not sense that she has singled him out in any way.”

“Do you think as a general matter we should be considering marriage for her?”

“She is certainly of an age where it is appropriate – and King Éomer aside, whom else of comparable rank could you think of?”

“Well, it is true that in Rohan she would be a queen. But would she be happy so far away from her family, her friends, her social background. I respect the Rohirrim enormously, and do not for a moment wish to cast aspersions on their nation, but from what I gather, they are unlikely to offer the degree of cultural sophistication Lothiriel is used to – they have (I gather) few written books, and their music is simple – mostly bards singing epic lays of the deeds of heroes. And you know how much Lothi loves the complicated new music, with its multiple layers of voices, that is all the rage in Minas Tirith at the moment.

“Also, after the war, Rohan is in a parlous state. She would find herself queen of a sadly somewhat impoverished country. Why, I believe Lord Éothain told Amrothos that the royal palace has a thatched roof. The heir to one of the other major principalities or dukedoms along the coast might be more suitable.” Imrahil paused for breath after this lengthy speech, and caught a glimpse of his wife's face, fixed with an expression of patience but slight exasperation. He hastened to sound out her views. “Do you have any sense of what Lothíriel would like? Is she drawn to rank, or would comfort and staying nearer to her home be more to her taste?”

“I rather think that if one asked her she would say 'neither'. I suspect she has weighed in the balance the merits of a marriage like ours against the drawbacks of a marriage like Lady Siliveth's, looked around to assess how many marriages of each sort she sees, and has decided she does not fancy the odds,” the princess said, with a somewhat sad smile.

“You believe her to think of the matter in such starkly mathematical terms?” Imrahil asked.

“Quite probably, if I know her.”

Imrahil pondered the matter for a few moments. “You are right, as ever,” he eventually conceded. “And yet at some stage she must marry… to a man of suitable rank. For unfortunately, it is hard to see what other possibilities life could afford her. After all, it is hardly as if she could be expected to dwindle into being a maiden aunt, dandling Elphir's children on her knee.”

Isteth raised an eyebrow. “I fear that if you asked her outright, she would say that emulating your dear sister was her dearest wish.”

“Good grief, the frightening thing is that I could see that – Lothíriel riding off to investigate far flung lands and report back on their political situation. Utterly unsuitable of course, but that never stopped my sister. Though I now have a certain degree of understanding of why my father reacted the way he did. To say he was unimpressed by her antics would be a distinct understatement.” His eyes twinkled for a moment. “Well, in that case, perhaps it is worth recalling that King Éomer's sister rode to war, which rather suggests that they allow women certain freedoms, freedoms the lack of which Lothíriel has always chafed against.”

Isteth was horrified. “Surely you would not want your daughter to ride to war as a shield maiden?”

Imrahil shuddered. “Of course not. I will never forget the shock of coming across the Lady Éowyn, apparently dead upon the field of combat. But still, you cannot deny that Lothi has an exuberance of spirit, a desire to go her own way, which it is hard to see being accommodated by some of the men in our society.”

“So, in short, I should make no promises to the Dowager Duchess?”


	6. For the want of a shoe...

Later that day, after lunch, Éomer strolled across the short green turf, basking in the warmth of the afternoon sun. It came as a considerable relief after the luncheon with King Elessar and Prince Imrahil. He was still getting used to calling Aragorn “King Elessar”. It seemed a million years ago that the scruffy stranger had risen like a ghost from the grasslands of his home.

The meeting had been taxing. For a start, Imrahil had been bending over backwards to be diplomatic and not offend him, which in its own peculiar way became almost more offensive than if no effort had been made at all. Éomer was shrewd enough to realise that Imrahil had some sort of half-baked idea that if he didn't pussy foot around the subject, Éomer would be offended by the offer of help. The Rohir snorted quietly to himself: he might be a daft bugger at times, but he wasn't that much of a daft bugger. His people – that still felt like such an odd phrase – were (if the messengers from the Mark spoke truly) on the brink of starvation in some parts of the country. He needed all the help he could get, and he knew it. And, what's more, given how many of his countrymen had fallen on the Pelennor and before the Black Gates, he had no qualms whatsoever about accepting help.

No, the bit that had given him the headache was working out exactly what it was they needed. He realised with a shock just how much knowledge his Uncle must have had about his realm, and how little he, in contrast, knew. It was at times like this that he wished he hadn't left Elfhelm behind to guard the routes to the north and protect Minas Tirith. There were no flies on Elfhelm – and although he hadn't run the kingdom himself, he had been one of Théoden's most trusted advisers, and had long experience of running very large estates. (Though to be honest, Éomer wasn't quite sure whether Elfhelm ran them or the Lady Hilde). He would have been a mine of information on what the country needed. Instead, he'd had Éothain at his right hand during the negotiations, and Éothain, while handy enough in a fight, was about as much use as a kettle made from butter when it came to discussions about trade agreements.

Still, they had managed to rough out a fairly good starting position, and on being told of the terrible state the Westfold was in, Imrahil immediately sent for messengers, wrote a list (starting prominently with provisions of grain and salted fish) and dispatched it to his regent in Dol Amroth. The private lunch had thus proved useful: unfortunately, afterwards, politeness had dictated that Éomer stay while Aragorn dealt with an interminable queue of petitioners, mostly bringing (what seemed to Éomer at any rate) an endless string of petty complaints. Sprinkled among the petty complaints, and even more discomfiting for one tired of warfare, were some older, shrewder heads who pointed out that while the war against Sauron was over, it would not serve to forget the merely mortal enemies still on their borders. With Haradrim and Corsairs on one flank, Easterlings on the other, and large numbers of orcs still at large within Mordor, the current peace was a fragile one. 

Aragorn responded with extreme shrewdness, and it rapidly became apparent to Éomer that the man had, in earlier times, travelled extensively and knew the situation in most of these places from within. His take on the situation was that there political problems within the various countries which had made alliances with Sauron attractive to the rulers of these countries, and that these political problems both pre-dated the recent war and were still in place after it. At the very least minor skirmishes were still likely; more probable still was the chance of renewed war within a handful of years. As he sat listening to the discussions, Éomer reflected that the situation in the Mark was equally precarious – he had the remains of Saruman's accursed Uruks to deal with, and also the Dunlendings, left bitter by defeat and desperate from hunger themselves. As the meeting went on, it was hard not to grow despondent, or to become exhausted by the sheer mental effort of keeping track of the various arguments. He had expected leading his people to involve considerable physical prowess; now he was coming to realise that it required almost more mental effort.

However, at long last he was able to make good his escape. He heaved a sigh of relief at finding himself free from being a spectator to the political machinations of the Gondorian nobility as they jostled for position in the new order brought about by the arrival of the new king from the north, Aragorn. Though in truth that was almost preferable to being the prime target in the political machinations of their wives, as they jostled to place their daughters in prime position with regard to the other king from the north, Éomer himself. He could feel a frown, a nagging tension growing between his brows. One thing that the luncheon and subsequent discussions had brought home very sharply was the fact that should he marry, it could not be to a woman who was simply interested in acquiring rank and privilege. He needed a woman who could rule the country as his regent when he was at war – and he feared that over the next few years there would indeed be war. Sadly, he thought, that not only ruled out ambitious socialites, but also a slip of a girl who was delightfully pretty, endlessly entertaining but far too young to be the sort of queen he needed. Not, of course, that she had given any indication of having taken a fancy to him. Unlike the Gondorian matrons.

The Gondorian matrons all hankered after seeing their daughter as queen of Rohan, as most insisted on calling his country. Unless of course they had actually bothered to do their homework, in which case they would actually remember to call it Riddermark, though, unaccountably, they almost always left out the definite article. He gave a wry half smile, which faded as he recalled his earlier assessment that this extra homework simply made them more dangerous.

They really would stop at nothing. Thank heavens for Amrothos' friendship with Éothain. Without the young Gondorian's advice, he would have unwittingly wandered into various situations which would have left him honour bound to marry the woman in question. And the thing that was frightening was the way such situations tended to blind-side him: even the most innocent set-ups seemed capable of being misread. If it was like the Mark, he could understand. No-one would be daft enough to think he could get caught with his hand down a sheila's neckline and not expect some consequences, not if she was a decent girl. But the subtleties of asking for a second dance, or offering a woman certain foodstuffs, or helping her to reattach an elaborate jewelled hairpiece which had come adrift (as one girl had requested) – all these things went right over his head. 

But for the moment he contented himself with enjoying the rare moment of solitude. Then a horrible thought struck him: here, in the middle of the greensward, he was horribly exposed. It could only be a matter of time before some bejewelled and befrilled matron descended on him, the light of battle in her eyes. Anxiously, he scanned the surroundings, and his gaze lit upon a figure seated in a canvas chair in the shade of a large chestnut tree. Next to the chair there was a small folding table with a silver tea service. Salvation! It was Amrothos' aunt. Quickening his pace, he strode over and bowed deeply.

“Your highness, how charming of you to honour an old lady,” said Princess Ivriniel, a slight twinkle in her eye.

“You make it sound like some kind of a chore,” answered Éomer. “I just wish I had aunts with tales as interesting as yours.”

“Added to which,” the old woman said dryly, “I have no daughters.”

Éomer laughed, tickled at being read so easily. “May I sit down?”

Ivriniel signalled to a servant who was standing in the entrance of a nearby tent; the retainer bustled over with a second canvas contraption which he unfolded with an expertise born of long practice. Éomer sat down and stretched his legs. The retainer poured him a cup of tea.

“I am afraid my commissariat does not run to ale,” said Ivriniel apologetically. “Actually, my commissariat is sadly depleted, for I am reduced to borrowing servants from my brother – my aide de camp, to my great sadness, fell before the Black Gates, and my maidservant has decided that country life does not suit her and has returned to town. So tea is the best I can offer.”

“Tea is fine, your ladyship, so long as it doesn't have milk in,” Éomer replied.

“So, how goes the game of cat and mouse? Are you finding sufficient holes to hide down?”

“You think it's just a game of cat and mouse? You're underrating the good ladies of Gondor. Military strategy of the highest order, and the main problem is I don't know the rules of engagement.”

Ivriniel inclined her grey head. “Any rules in particular?”

“It's not so much the rules I already know about that are the problem – dances, spicy foods, helping with fancy hair clasps. It's the ones I haven't yet discovered that really worry me.”

“Ah yes, the unknown unknowns. Always the most difficult aspect of intelligence work. Well, let me see... Always address a lady using her title, never simply by her given name. On no account do more than the slightest of brushes of your lips against a lady's knuckles – never her palm and most definitely not the inside of her wrist...”

“Rothos already told me that one,” interjected Éomer (privately reflecting that the young Prince obviously subscribed to the philosophy of “Do as I say, not as I do.”)

Ivriniel continued, “Good, good, glad to see you are amassing information from a variety of sources. Always the first principle of intelligence work – get cross bearings from as many directions as possible. But, the rules of engagement... Let me see… what else? Do not assist a lady to mount her horse, or even worse, catch her as she dismounts.” At this point, Éomer could not help but remember Éothain doing just this for that flighty young woman… the young woman it appeared Amrothos was also pursuing… and she a married woman too! 

“Woolgathering for a moment?” Ivriniel asked in an amused voice. She continued, “If she gives you a favour, you may wear it round your right arm, but never your left, for the left side is the side of the heart, and would signal clearly that your heart was engaged. If you feel yourself moved to write poetry, address the lady obliquely by means of pseudonymous references to one of the Maiar or some mythical arcadian shepherdess, not in any way that would identify the lady directly...”

Éomer interrupted. “I'm in the clear on that one. I think I can safely say there's as much chance of me writing poetry as there is of finding tits on a bull.”

Ivriniel gave a silvery laugh. “I am relieved to hear it. The poetry of enamoured young men is rarely of any quality. Let me see, what else? Oh yes, be wary of offering assistance – usually safest to get one's servants to do it.”

Éomer's face clouded. “So that was what was behind that girl on the hunting trip yesterday claiming her horse had shed a shoe... Lucky for me I could see there was nothing wrong with the nag – well, beyond its being a typical Gondy nag, that is.”

“Yes, if one is going to use that ruse, one has to do it properly...”

“Deliberately lame a horse!” Éomer was shocked beyond belief.

“Of course not, young man... merely loosen a shoe.”

Éomer eyed her with suspicion. The worst crime had been ruled out, but he was still shocked that she might, in her youth, have stooped to trying to entrap men into marriage with that sort of ruse. Ivriniel eyed him shrewdly, then said, as if reading his mind, “Of course the circumstances were quite different.”

“In what way?”

“Well, it was back in the days of Steward Ecthelion – grandfather to my nephew Faramir, the current steward. I had gone to one of the ports on the Umbarian coast, ostensibly because of a fascination with a certain type of musical instrument the region was famed for. I was on my way home, accompanied only by my maid and an elderly manservant, when I spied a large group of light cavalry behind me. Of course one's first instinct is to gallop for the hills at that point, but I knew I couldn't outrun them. So instead, I dismounted, pried my horse's shoe loose, and looked suitably helpless. They arrived, looking very fearsome, scimitars drawn, but when they took in the scene, rapidly sheathed their swords, and thereafter couldn't have been more solicitous. They very kindly mended the shoe, and even topped up my provisions for the journey before sending me on my way.”

“Which I'm guessing they shouldn't have done?” said Éomer, who had long since realised that where Princess Ivriniel was concerned, nothing was as it seemed.

“I'm afraid they were in grave dereliction of their duty. For you see I had detailed plans of the coastal defences and the strength and disposition of the Umbarian navy tucked down my bloomers.”

Éomer burst out laughing. 

~o~O~o~

 

While Éomer was enjoying tea and anecdotes with Princess Ivriniel (or, at any rate, enjoying the anecdotes: whether he was enjoying the tea was rather more of a moot point), the delightful young girl who was in his opinion much too naive to make a queen was out riding, blissfully unaware that she had been assessed for such an exalted position, let alone assessed and found wanting. In the early evening, Lothíriel arrived back from exercising her palfrey expecting a quiet family supper with her parents and brothers. After the previous night's excitement, she was rather looking forward to an evening without feeling herself on display. However, her expectations were quickly dashed. There, sitting engaged in animated conversation with her father, were (of all people) Bronaer and Siliveth. And to Bronaer's left sat a second man whom she did not recognise, a tall, reasonably turned-out man, perhaps ages with her cousin. With a sinking heart, Lothíriel approached the group.

Her mother greeted her with a smile that did not reach her eyes. “Lothíriel, dearest, isn't this an unexpected pleasure? Lord Bronaer and Lady Siliveth have come to call. And it seemed, given the timing, to be such a delightful opportunity to ask them to join us for supper.” Lothíriel correctly read into her mother's tone of voice the fact that given the timing of their arrival, Princess Isteth had felt duty-bound to offer them a meal. Her mother continued, “And they have brought their charming friend… Lord Mabglor.”

“At your service,” said the man, rising to his feet and bowing.

Bronaer also got to his feet, and gave a bow, smiling at Lothíriel with a curiously knowing impression which somehow entirely undid the effect of the bow. “Lord Mabglor is a dear friend of mine, who acquitted himself with great honour upon the field at Morannon. With such great honour, and such tactical flair in commanding his troops, that he has come to the notice of our new King, and, it is to be hoped, will rise to a position of some prominence in the new administration.”

Lothíriel found herself feeling more than a little bit uncomfortable. Why was Bronaer here, and why did he find it necessary to sing his friend's praises to the heavens? She had a strong feeling that the man did very little on a whim: there was always some ulterior motive, but what? Her train of thought was interrupted by her father.

“I remember your performance on the battlefield well: you did indeed show a remarkable composure in the face of what seemed at the time to be desperate odds.”

Lothíriel heaved an inward sigh of relief and settled down on the day bed beside her mother. She listened to her father discuss military strategy with Mabglor. The man was civil and polite, and obviously able to hold forth on matters of tactics with some confidence, though Lothíriel (who had grown up listening to her father discuss such matters) could not shake the feeling that his knowledge was perhaps not quite as extensive as Bronaer's introduction might have led one to believe. Still, the man did not push his opinions on her father, but rather listened attentively and deferred to Imrahil's greater expertise with a good natured affability. Perhaps, despite being Bronaer's friend, the man might turn out to be a pleasant enough chap.

Resolving to give him the benefit of the doubt, she considered his appearance. Neatly dressed, fashionably even, though not to the point of excess. His tunic was chosen well and set off his complexion and eyes quite nicely – he was actually quite a handsome man. Dark haired, of course… for a moment, a feeling of slight disappointment flitted across Lothíriel's mind, but she batted it away. She certainly was not going to fall into the habit of pining over a man simply because his hair was a pleasing shade of blond. Really, that would not do at all. Fortunately for her peace of mind, further reverie was forestalled by the arrival of her father's butler.

“Your royal highnesses, lords, lady, dinner is served.”

Lothíriel found herself seated beside their new acquaintance. Despite her resolution to give Mabglor the benefit of the doubt, and not judge him on his friendship with Bronaer, she still could not find herself at ease in his company. Furthermore, the dinner was a strange affair from Lothíriel's perspective – she felt oddly off balance throughout. There was nothing one could pin down about any precise aspect of the conversation. The topics themselves seemed ordinary enough: the recent hunting trip; court politics (those parts considered frivolous enough for ladies' ears – this in itself was irritating, for had Bronaer and his party not been there, her father would undoubtedly have told them all the details of both domestic and foreign affairs, as he always did); the latest fashions and dances from Minas Tirith; the beauty and strangeness of elves. But there was something Lothíriel could not quite put her finger on in the way they were tackled, something that made her feel like a spectator rather than a participant.

Eventually, as the evening was drawing to a close, Mabglor made a rather anodyne (and somewhat simple minded) remark about the post-war settlements likely to be drawn up between not only between Gondor and her allies, but also between Gondor and her former enemies. Bronaer turned to Lothíriel with his customarily bland, somewhat smug and irritatingly condescending smile, and said, “Surely you must agree with that excellent assessment of the situation, Princess?” And suddenly the pieces fell into place, and she realised the source of her discomfiture. All night long Bronaer had been trying to set up the conversation so that she was constantly being expected to defer to Mabglor's opinions.

Lothíriel started to respond, somewhat heatedly, that she thought Mabglor's assessment of the situation was rather jejeune, and was about to enlarge upon her reasons for thinking so, when Bronaer spoke over her as if she were not there. Instead, he turned to her father. 

“I realise you must think that perhaps Lord Mabglor's opinion is too straightforward, but I rather think after so long at war, with Lord Denethor (may the Valar rest him) weaving such complex webs and playing such an involved long game of strategy that he himself eventually lost sight of the wood for the trees, there is a lot to be said for a straightforward and honest approach.” 

And with that simple trick, Bronaer contrived to remove the opportunity for her to respond. He had pre-empted her response, and furthermore, she could not very well interrupt her father without coming across as angrily unreasonable. She sat there seething quietly for the rest of the final course. The party then withdrew to the rather more comfortable chairs and couches nearby, to partake of sweetmeats and fortified wines. Lothíriel's discomfort grew as she found herself seated next to Mabglor, and realised that he was now trying to pay court to her. Normally this would have been like water off a duck's back, but following on from the conversation over dinner, his remarks reduced her to a silent fury. He made no effort to engage her in conversation, to draw from her any insight into her own personality. Instead, he alternated between talking of himself and offering up the most trite, predictable compliments on her appearance, which felt almost as though they might have been taken from some sort of treatise, perhaps _A primer of the gentle art of courtship for noble knights_ , or similar.

The whole situation was made worse by Bronaer's behaviour. He sat on the couch opposite, affecting a look of bland benevolence, and occasionally sharing knowing glances with Siliveth as he drew attention to some kind gesture or other of Mabglor's. It was as if he were playing the part of the kindly uncle watching indulgently as his young niece succumbed charmingly to the attentions of her attentive suitor – and his performance was a bravura piece of acting.

Eventually the dreadful charade came to an end, but not before Mabglor delivered his coup de grace. At the entrance to the tent, the lord bowed deeply, took Lothíriel's hand and instead of merely bringing it close to his face, actually pressed his lips to her skin. He said, “I hope I may presume to call upon you tomorrow, and claim at least one dance from you at the ball that evening.” The way he said “at least” made Lothíriel's heart sink. With another bow, he left the tent. Lothíriel breathed a sigh of relief, but her relief turned out to be premature, for to make matters worse, at this point Siliveth chimed in.

“What a delightful evening. And how lovely,” she added archly, “To see you finally meet a gentleman of such noble bearing and valour. And such a refreshing change to find a man of such firm opinions that you find yourself free to defer to him in a more feminine way than is your customary style. A truly manly man indeed.”

“You cannot believe...” Lothíriel began, but she found herself addressing Siliveth's back as the latter turned to thank her mother for her hospitality. The whole evening had somehow turned into something which felt very like one of those dreadful nightmares where the most embarrassing things imaginable keep happening, but one somehow cannot change one's actions, and is struck utterly dumb every time one tries to explain. As Siliveth and Bronaer left, Lothíriel saw her parents looking at her with utterly puzzled expressions. Suddenly it all felt beyond bearing, as though the fabric walls of the tent had wrapped themselves tightly around her and were suffocating her. With a quick bob of her head and few hasty words to the effect that she suddenly felt very tired, Lothíriel fled to her own sleeping quarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the huge delay in posting - my internet has been unwell (to put it mildly).


	7. When even Far Harad seems tempting

While Lothíriel was undergoing her evening of social discomfort, the King of Rohan was enjoying an evening of peace and solitude. In the quiet calm of his tent, Éomer stretched his legs out and took another mouthful of his tankard of ale. Bit watery, perhaps a little too hoppy, but at least it wasn't faarkin' tea. He relished the thought of a night without a social engagement. At the same time, while he revelled in not having to fight off the massed legions of worthy matrons, there was a nagging feeling that he rather missed the dark haired princess. He brushed his hair back from his forehead and gave his head a little shake. No good thinking about that. What was it Bronaer had called her? A chit out of the schoolroom? Not queen material. He took another swig of his ale. Béma's arse, why couldn't she be, he didn't know, five years older or something, a bit more worldly-wise? He gave another shake of his head. Definitely no good thinking about that. And in any case, chances were if she was five years older, she'd already be married. 

His wandering thoughts were interrupted as, with a rustling of canvas, the tent door was opened. Éothain ducked his head under the low entrance and came in.

“Have you left any ale for me, or have you drunk it all yourself, you greedy bugger?”

“Now there's a fine way to address your king,” said Éomer, affecting a tone of gruff annoyance. Then he grinned and shoved an empty tankard towards his friend. “Barrel's in the corner, Edric tapped it earlier. Typical Gondy gnat's piss, mind you.”

“How's Edric shaping up?” asked Éothain.

“Bit wet behind the ears, but he'll do. Wouldn't want to rely on him as my squire in a battle, but he's learning the ropes reasonably well round here.”

“Shame about Wilfram,” said Éothain, as he filled his tankard.

“Shame about all the buggers who died too soon. War's a bastard.” Éomer lifted his mug of ale. “To fallen comrades.”

“Fallen comrades,” said Éothain, clattering his mug against Éomer's. “May they ride the green fields of the hereafter in glory.”

The two men sat and drank in silence for a while. Eventually the king spoke.

“Don't suppose you know if the evening rider from Minas Tirith has arrived yet?”

Éothain clapped his hand to his forehead. “Damn my absent mindedness. Yes of course.” He fished in his pocket and produced a couple of folded sheets of parchment, sealed with wax. Éomer took them, and examined the handwriting.

“Elfhelm and… Éowyn.” His face split into a grin, and he immediately broke the seal on the letter from his sister, then read avidly. Éothain watched him, waiting for news.

“Well?”

“Her arm's less painful. Says everyone in the Houses of Healing is being kind to her, and Elfhelm's called by a few times, but reading between the lines she sounds a bit down. Says she's too tired to make the journey here.”

“Shame. If her arm's up to it, the change of scene would probably do her good.”

“Yeah, I said pretty much the same thing when I wrote to her, but you know how stubborn she can be.”

“The whole of the Mark knows how stubborn she can be,” said Éothain with a grin. “Dressing as a bloke and riding to war...” His voice tailed off as he noticed the frown on Éomer's face.

“Yeah, if she and I were still kids I'd leather the hell out of her for doing what she did. Still, she's alright, we're alright, it's all good.”

“Anything else in the letter?”

“She's been hanging out with the Steward – the new one – says he's an okay bloke, but a bit uptight and stiff.”

“That'd go for at least half the Gondy bastards I've met.”

“Yeah, and the rest of them are quite the opposite – pretend to be proper in public, but right randy shaggers underneath it all...” Éomer looked thoughtful for a moment. “I suppose I should be grateful this Steward bloke isn't one of that type of Gondy bastard.”

“Even if he was, they have such strict rules he'd hardly misbehave himself with your sister,” said Éothain. “As far as I can see, though they pretend it's all down to the bloke, actually it's the women make the running. Put a single foot wrong and you're honour bound to marry some manipulative sheila.”

“Yeah… nah. I thought that to start with. But I was talking to Princess Ivriniel earlier...”

“Not another princess? Surely the one is enough for any man.”

“Blaardy hell, Éothain, do you always assume I'm on the pull every time I mention a woman? Ivriniel is Lothíriel's auntie, and at least twice my age… Anyway I said pretty much what you've just said to her, and she said that wasn't how it worked at all – that it was incredibly easy for a bloke who was a bit fly to deliberately compromise a girl so she had to marry him – that's why the girls here usually marry young, so they don't have time to get a reputation for being loose.” 

Éomer paused for a moment, and recalled Ivriniel's words. He could hear her saying, “If, for instance, a man takes a shine to a young woman and manages, say, to kiss the palm of her hand in public… well, a mature woman might get away with that, but a young girl! Everyone would say she was fast for allowing it to happen, even if it had been entirely his doing. And she would then have the choice,” (Ivriniel's voice was laden with irony at this point) “of either accepting his suit or of living under the cloud of having had her virtue impugned.”

Éothain's words brought him back to the present. “That's a weird set-up. I mean I know some people who've married young and it's worked – Elfhelm and his missus – but most people, well you need to be reasonably grown up to make it work.” He took another swig of beer. “Talking of Elfhelm, what's he got to say for himself?”

Éomer opened the other letter and scanned it. “It's actually from Hilde – Elfhelm's forwarded it with a few annotations of his own… She's a smart woman, that one. Been kicking the arses of all the thains and eorls to get them to do a detailed inventory of all the grain stocks in the Mark, how many horses they have, sizes of flocks, numbers of cattle, that sort of thing.” His brows drew together into a frown as he mulled over the information. “Béma, I hope Imrahil comes across with the goods like he promised… we'll be in the shitter next winter if he doesn't.”

“Hilde knows her stuff – you can be sure the information's accurate.”

Éomer gave a grin. “All these people – well, scheming mothers, really – saying I need a queen… sadly they're right. I do. Thing is, I need one like Hilde, not one of their flighty daughters.”

“You could always bump off Elfhelm,” Éothain said in a sly undertone.

Éomer roared with laughter. “And have her kill me? No thank you!”

~o~O~o~

Sleep had taken a long time to come to Lothíriel, and then only for a few hours before she woke in the dark, mind racing with pent up fury and tortured by the memory of feeling powerless in the midst of Bronaer's machinations. She was sure he was up to something, orchestrating events, pulling on imaginary strings as if she and Mabglor were his puppets – but to what end? Eventually, in the grey light before dawn, she finally managed to snatch a few hour's sleep, but woke feeling exhausted, her eyes sore, her joints aching. Reluctantly she swung her legs out of bed.

By this time it was mid morning and she entered the main area of the tent to find her parents had long since gone. As she nibbled at some oat cakes and ham, and drank some of the Easterling green tea Ivriniel favoured, her father's majordomo informed her that the Prince was in a meeting with King Elessar, and her mother was spending the morning paying social visits. Lothíriel decided that what was needed to ease her mood was a sounding board, and duly decided to visit Merilwen. She had no illusions about this – Merilwen was far too scatter brained to be likely to offer anything even approaching sound advice. But she did rather hope that simply describing the horrors of the previous night might help her to order her thoughts and make sense of events.

Such was Lothíriel's distracted mood that she sat unusually patiently while her maid dressed her and arranged her hair. By the time the girl had finished, she was arrayed in a most fetching pale green silk dress, of the latest fashion, a birthday present from her aunt. Ivriniel was something of a puzzle in this respect. She disdained fashion for her own part, preferring to dress in an understated, elegant but somehow timeless manner, but nonetheless had a very keen eye for the latest thing when it came to choosing gowns for her niece. Lothíriel looked at herself in the mirror and decided she looked quite the thing. She smiled. There was a particular sort of satisfaction to be gained from knowing that not only did one look one's best, it was being done entirely for one's own personal amusement, and the only other person likely to see the ensemble was one's female friend. As far as she was concerned, she would happily spend her life dressing finely for morning visits to ladies of her acquaintance, then spend her evenings wearing sackcloth to annoy Bronaer and his lapdog.

Cheered by this train of thought, she strode through the entrance of the tent and set off at a brisk pace across the turf to the cluster of tents surrounding the fluttering penant bearing Lord Borlas's crouching lion. Her heart fell, however, when she was shown into Merilwen's tent only to find Siliveth in attendance. However, before she could react in any way, Siliveth leapt to her feet.

“Darling girl, I was just telling my sister about what a lovely evening we had. And about how well you and Lord Mabglor got on. Such a charming man – such a brave war hero, so noble, so strong… and so attentive to you.”

“I could quite happily have lived out the whole of my life without his attention,” Lothiriel replied, tartly.

“But he is so suitable – his estates are sizeable, almost as large as the principality of Dol Amroth, you would be close to your family, he moves in the first circles in Minas Tirith, both socially and politically.”

Merilwen felt moved to chip in at this point, “He was my darling Arodon's commanding officer – Arodon speaks most highly of him. In fact, it was thanks to Lord Mabglor mentioning Arodon in dispatches that my dear heart gained his promotion.”

“See what a capital fellow the man is… Time even for a lowly second lieutenant.” She continued in an aside to her sister, “Though really, Merilwen, you should not talk of him as your 'dear heart' – after all, it is not as if our parents have, or are likely to agree to a match, whether or not he has been mentioned in dispatches.” 

At this, Merilwen's face took on a mulishly stubborn expression. Siliveth pressed on regardless.

“And do think, Lothíriel, how comfortable it will be to be settled. Why, as a married woman you will have certain freedoms which are not afforded to maidens. And it will quiet the wagging tongues...”

Lothíriel's eyes widened. “What wagging tongues?”

“Well, you are beginning to get a reputation for being a bit fast...”

That was really too much! Lothíriel went on the counter-attack.

“That's a bit rich coming from a married woman who seems to have at least one Lord of Rohan dangling after her.”

“Ah, but you see, such are the advantages of marriage. One can engage in a little harmless flirtation and everyone simply sees it as a joke.”

Always one to try to smooth away troubles, Merilwen hastily added, “After all it's not as if you are going to take it too far.”

A slightly faraway look crossed Siliveth's face. “It would almost be worth it to get back at Bronaer, mind you. He has been such a complete cad of late. Would you believe he left for Minas Tirith this morning? Spun me some sort of faradiddle about taking important messages to Lord Castamir for the consideration of the new Steward. But of course we all know that it has more to do with our mother making things so uncomfortable for Lady Gwenneth that she had to return to the city to avoid social ostracism.”

“Oh please, Siliveth, be sensible,” pleaded Merilwen, her eyes beginning to fill with tears of worry. “Bronaer can get away with playing fast and loose, such behaviour is expected of men, they have their urges and instincts, after all… But were you to behave in a similar manner, you would surely be ruined.”

Siliveth reached out and ruffled her sister's hair fondly. “Oh you silly billy. Of course I shan't compromise myself. I am not such an utter fool. I shall behave with perfect circumspection before the eyes of the assembled multitudes.” 

The slightly wicked twinkle in Siliveth's eyes prompted Lothíriel to ask, “And once out of the gaze of the assembled multitudes?”

“Oh, nothing too scandalous, I should think, more's the pity. I might allow him to kiss my hand, but I certainly shall not allow him any liberties.” There was something about the way Siliveth's colour rose becomingly at this point which made Lothíriel wonder as to her friend's sincerity. Her uncertainty on this point was not allayed when Siliveth added, somewhat wisfully, “Though one can't help but wonder...”

“Wonder what?”

“What it would be like to be made love to by a man who meant it...” 

Merilwen gave a gasp of shock. “You can't possibly mean that. Surely no woman would even want to… well, with a man who is not her husband… It is beyond imagining.”

Lothíriel tried not to let her amusement show. Surely Merilwen could not be that naïve? 

Siliveth (who counted teasing her rather strait-laced sister as one of her favourite pastimes) gave a giggle, and added with a theatrical sigh, “Alas, woe is me, doomed never to find out.”

The rest of the visit played out in mindless society tittle-tattle, to which Lothíriel listened with only partial attention. The larger part of her brain was occupied with trying to tease out the details of the situation. It felt, at first glance, as if the whole world was conspiring against her. Mabglor was determined to pay her court. Why this might be, she was not certain. It certainly could not be love – the man hadn't set eyes on her before last night, well, other than perhaps at a distance at one of the various social events to celebrate the victory. Bronaer seemed determined to further his suit. Again, why? What did he stand to gain. And why (given the disdain with which she viewed her husband) was Siliveth supporting him?

While her first instinct was to wonder whether her Aunt could be persuaded that an urgent diplomatic mission to Far Harad was the order of the day (taking Lothíriel with her), nonetheless her curiosity was piqued. Here was a puzzle of the first order, and she wanted to solve it. Furthermore, the heat of battle had been kindled and was flowing hot in her veins. Bronaer wanted to manipulate her for some reason, and she was damned if she was going to give him the satisfaction of winning.

As she finally took her leave of Merilwen and her sister, she decided that a good gallop to clear her mind was what was needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to the Ladies of the Garden of Ithilien for comments in draft - it ended up much better than it would have been otherwise!


	8. A game of pebbles

The answer to one part of the puzzle came rather sooner than Lothíriel had expected. An hour or so after setting out for her ride, she returned to the pickets where the horses were kept. There she found her two younger brothers, assessing a reasonably sound looking warhorse – undoubtedly with a view to purchasing a remount for one or other of them.

“Lothi,” Amrothos called out. “Come and have a look at this nag for us…” His voice trailed off as she got closer, then, to her chagrin, he found it again. “Tulkas' rod, sister, you look absolutely hagged!”

“I didn't sleep well,” she muttered.

“Head turned by having a handsome chap showering you with attention?” asked Erchirion with a knowing smile.

“Don't. Last night was simply dreadful. He was so pompous and annoying, and yet I somehow couldn't get a word in edgeways to give him a set down.”

“Thank the Valar for that,” said Amrothos. “See, I told you so, Erchi. Said our sister wasn't the sort of damned fool to have her head turned by flattery, especially from a man so patently talking down to her.”

“Oh Erchi,” said Lothíriel, shocked by this information. “Surely you didn't think I was actually interested in him?”

“Well, it's not as stupid an idea as it might sound – Bronaer's right, you know, the man is a damned good commander and strategist, unquestionably brave, likely to have the ear of the new King, and has the confidence of Castamir, our late, unlamented Uncle Denethor's prime advisor – so he could form a useful political bridge between the old regime and the new. And what's more, he has extensive holdings along the coast to the west of Edhellond – almost as extensive as father's principality. You could do worse, you know.”

“But what about my feelings in the matter? Do you think I want to be tied to a man who thinks he can patronise me all night, treat me as though incapable of rational thought, then win me over with a few trite, over-worked compliments?” Lothíriel's voice was outraged. She turned to Amrothos for support. 

“She has a point there, Erchi. Surely you can't imagine our sister being the silent, unquestioningly supportive type, standing by her man through thick and thin? Or the sort of social butterfly who'll put up with any peccadilloes her husband commits so long as he funds her fripperies? If we don't contrive to find her a husband she can actually respect, there's a strong risk she'll end up sticking a dagger in him,” said Amrothos with a chuckle.

“Given our sister's tendency to speak her mind and tell men to their faces when she thinks they're being bloody fools, I'll be surprised if we ever manage to find her any sort of husband at all,” Erchirion responded irritably.

“Well, even so, I don't think we need feel so desperate yet over the prospect of our sister's impending old-maid-dom (or whatever one wants to call it) that we need force her into accepting an offer from Mabglor,” Amrothos offered. “After all, despite your encomium to him just now, financially the man's damn near washed up!”

“What do you mean?” asked Erchirion in surprise.

Amrothos smiled. “I say, don't tell me that I am more au-fait with society gossip than you, dear brother. And there was me thinking that you must know everything going on in the foremost gaming hells of the White City. Allow me to enlighten you. Our friend Mabglor is most inauspiciously and ironically named. He's been playing far too deep, and has got himself in debt to all sorts of people. Estates mortgaged to the hilt. Not surprising he's paying court to our sister – quite aside from her undoubted charms, she comes with a large dowry.”

“Oh!” squeaked Lothíriel. She really couldn't think what else to say – until a sudden realisation dawned. “Rothos, if I might loose an arrow in the dark, would I be right in surmising that Bronaer is one of his major creditors?”

“In the gold, dear sister, in the gold! No flies on you.”

“So that's why Bronaer the dissolute was encouraging him!” Lothíriel gave a snort of disgust. “I swoon at Lord Boring's feet, he scoops up my dowry, then uses it to pay off Lord Cad-and-bounder!”

“My, oh my, anyone would think you did not like either of them very much,” Amrothos chuckled.

“I cannot for a moment imagine what might have given you that idea.” His sister gave a smile. “Now, let me have a look at this nag of yours...”

~o~O~o~

Lothíriel partook of a picnic luncheon with her brothers, before returning to the Dol Amroth pavilion. There, she found her mother, returned from a morning of social calls. Her father, it transpired, was still engaged in business of state with the king. Feeling tired from a combination of lack of sleep, exercise and emotional upheaval, Lothíriel settled into an armchair, content in the prospect of a quiet afternoon with her mother.

She would have been surprised to realise that her mother sensed rather more of her emotional upheaval than she believed herself to be revealing, and had a pretty good idea of what had occasioned it. In fact, Princess Isteth had already discussed the matter at some length with her husband, explaining that there was something about Mabglor that she really had not warmed to, no matter how courteously attentive to her daughter he had seemed to be. Imrahil had agreed, and had added that if he read Lothíriel aright (and he usually did), her uncharacteristic silence had been occasioned by irritation at the man's effrontery rather than a coy acceptance of the man's suit. 

The princess was rather hoping that her daughter would open up to her, for she could tell that Lothíriel was unsettled. It would be good to reassure her that neither of her parents was at all anxious to push a match onto her. However, Lothíriel showed every sign of intending to disappear into a book, and the princess knew from long experience that once she had started to read, there would be no distracting her for the rest of the afternoon. In desperation, she tried to think of an alternative activity which would enable them to talk.

“I do wish you'd come and join me in trying out this rather fine embroidery silk that's just arrived from Minas Tirith,” said Princess Isteth to her daughter. “It's finest Haradi silk,” she added in a hopeful, almost pleading tone. “Last batch to be imported before the war broke out in earnest.”

“Thank you mother, but I just want to try this out. It arrived by today's messenger – a present from cousin Fara.” Lothíriel waved the small book, bound in red leather. Her dark hair fell forward as she leaned over a polished mahogany board, etched with crossing lines. By her elbow was a matching mahogany box, its lid adorned with inlaid mother-of-pearl dragons. She casually cast the lid aside to reveal two compartments, one filled with polished quartz pebbles, the other with polished obsidian pebbles.

Her mother gave a faint sigh, sensing impending defeat. “What is it, dearest?”

“A book of endgame problems...” Lothíriel opened the book at the page she had marked earlier, and weighted the pages with the box lid, before starting to lay out pebbles in accordance with the picture. “This is the classic endgame of the so-called _Grand Master of the Eastern Wind_.” 

She was so engrossed in her puzzle that she failed to see her mother's rolled eyes. Princess Isteth sometimes wondered whether she and Imrahil had done the right thing in allowing their daughter so much licence as she grew up. While Isteth thanked the Valar daily that she had had the good fortune to marry a man who was not only intelligent himself but valued intelligence in his wife, she was all too acutely aware that such men were a relative rarity, and she sometimes wondered whether encouraging Lothíriel's intellectual tendencies had merely served to produce a daughter as unfit for the marriage market as her Aunt Ivriniel had been. Of course, Ivvy had had the good fortune to be plain; plain women were allowed to be eccentric. In a woman as beautiful as Lothíriel however, an obvious failure to live down to society's low expectations for women folk was liable to lead to one's being labelled as “fast” rather than “eccentric.”

This rather depressing train of thought was, mercifully, interrupted by the herald. He drew aside the tent flap and announced in stentorian tones, “His Majesty the King of Rohan, and Lord Éothain.”

The two princesses rose to their feet politely as the tall Rohirrim stooped to enter the tent, then stood (slightly awkwardly, Lothíriel felt) taking up rather a large amount of space. Éomer remembered his manners first and bowed, greeting them formally. 

“I was wondering if Prince Imrahil was here – the night before last, he mentioned the possibility of trading arrangements between the Mark and Dol Amroth, but said that a ball wasn't quite the place to discuss it.”

“My lord husband is currently ensconced with King Elessar and a messenger for Minas Tirith,” said Princess Isteth.

“No worries,” said Éomer, then, remembering himself, added, “I can catch up with him some other time. Stupid of me not to have made an appointment. Haven't quite got my head round all this business of sending my advisor over to talk to his advisor to find a time that suits both parties, and all that kind of stuff.”

Éothain chipped in with, “I thought I'd see if 'Rothos wanted to come for a ride.” 

“I believe my youngest son has gone down to the river,” said Princess Isteth, with a smile. Lothíriel got the feeling that her mother quite approved of Amrothos' new friendship. Probably the open, honest nature of the Rohir appealed after the rather louche crowd her middle brother hung out with.

“Thanks, I'll see if I can catch up with him,” said Éothain, giving a nod of his head.

“I'll come too, shall I?” Éomer added, but he did not sound entirely keen. He and Éothain exchanged a glance loaded with some kind of meaning – quite what, Lothíriel couldn't make out – but it clearly had some significance.

“Nah, I'll be right,” said Éothain, and bowed to the two ladies before withdrawing.

A slightly awkward silence followed Éothain's departure, broken by Princess Isteth saying “May I offer you some tea and a light repast?”

Lothíriel could have sworn she saw Éomer shudder slightly, but his voice was perfectly polite and level as he said “That would be very nice, Princess Isteth.” 

Lothíriel considered it more of a curse than a blessing that she occasionally received flashes of other people's thoughts: a kind of legacy of her elven ancestry. It seemed that this was one of those occasions. Bizarrely, however, the thought she now received was not a premonition of deep significance, or a startling insight into the king's formative experiences and character, but rather an image – an image of a cucumber sandwich. An image of a cucumber sandwich, furthermore, coupled with an unmistakable feeling of intense distaste. Giving her head a slight shake to clear the intruding thought process, she gestured to the chair nearest to where she sat.

“Do come and join me, my lord.”

Éomer gave one of his polite but slightly clumsy bows and sat, folding his immense height somewhat awkwardly into the low chair. But then his face broke into a genuine smile as he took note of the wooden board with its pebbles carefully laid out.

“The encircling game!”

“Do you play?” said Lothíriel, in tones of some surprise.

Éomer looked her straight in the eye and said “We're not all completely ocker in the Riddermark, you know...” On seeing her puzzled expression he explained, “I mean, we're not totally uncivilized savages.” Lothíriel had the good grace to look slightly hangdog at having hinted at such a thing, and, as if sensing a small victory, Éomer's mouth twitched into the beginnings of a grin. “Yeah... nah, you were right. We are ocker. But there was a travelling sell-sword, an Easterling, showed up in Aldburg when I was just starting out as a young Rider in Elfhelm's eored. He taught us how to play. Something to do in the barracks on long winter nights. Made a change from getting drunk...”

Lothíriel gave an answering smile, then picked up a black and a white stone and held them behind her back. Éomer pointed to her left side – she brought that hand forward to reveal a white stone.

“Dammit, my luck's not in today,” said Éomer.

“If you want me to let you play black, that's fine,” said Lothíriel, raising her eyebrows. She saw Éomer's eyes narrow in response.

“Nah, I'll be right,” he said, taking a handful of white stones and laying them in front of him. Lothíriel smiled, and placed her first stone, near the upper right corner. The opening followed its traditional pattern, each establishing stones near the corners, before cautiously starting to engage in play closer to one another. 

Both of them were cagey to start with – sequences of safe moves, probing to see if either would commit to anything rash or bold, to see if either made mistakes easily, a process of getting the measure of each other. The areas of stones grew, and as they did, Lothíriel watched her opponent after each stone that she placed. Often people's facial expressions told you as much as their play; you could tell when they were rattled, or when they were confident, or when they thought they had you cornered in a few moves time and you hadn't spotted what they were up to. But Éomer's face gave little away. She supposed she should have guessed as much, from playing cards with him.

Which wasn't to say it was a complete blank. A strand of his dark blond hair had come free from the band he used to tie it back, and he pushed it, absently, behind his ear. His expression was one of concentration, eyes narrowed, slight frown lines on his brow, lips moving as he thought about the problem. But all that she gleaned from this was that he was giving the game his full attention. He did not, like so many players, let his emotional state show.

And in her turn, as Éomer made each answering move, Lothíriel found herself having to give pay heed to the board. He was certainly good enough that she was not going to win easily, which rather surprised her. She felt her own lips twitch in an involuntary smile. He certainly was not “ocker” or whatever the word was that he'd used to describe himself. And the Easterling mercenary all those years ago had clearly been a very good teacher.

She caught Éomer's eye, and realised he'd caught the flicker of a smile as it passed across her face. He raised his eyebrows, and gave a half-grin of his own. It seemed that she was not the only person assessing her opponent's mood… though fortunately, her smile had not been occasioned by the state of play, and in fact might even lead him astray if he read too much into it. Though the effect might well be cancelled out by the effect that half-grin had on her. Dammit, the man really was very attractive – not just handsome, for handsome and bland all too frequently went together. No, there was definitely something more than mere looks at play here, instead something about the way he smiled… Lothíriel gave herself a mental shake. This would not do, would not do at all. The honour of Dol Amroth, and more importantly, of the female sex, was at stake. She was dashed if she was going to be beaten by an “ocker” barbarian horselord. Even if she was beginning to harbour a suspicion that the barbarian horselord was in fact anything but.

The game progressed. She managed to encircle a small group of his stones, sweeping them up triumphantly. He gave her that half-smile again, leaning back in his chair as if assessing the situation. She got the distinct impression that he was assessing her response as much as her play: would she become cocky and let her guard down, or would she up the ante and press home her advantage? The answer, Lothíriel thought to herself, was 'neither of the above', and to her mind, she managed to keep a cool head. However, in the short term it proved to be to no avail; in response, he captured a rather larger group of hers. She dealt a riposte by establishing a small area of territory with two eyes within it, rendering it safe from capture. The frown of concentration reappeared – two vertical lines above the bridge of his nose. Then he managed to deal with a lone group of her stones, cut off from the main focus of play, which she had neglected to defend properly.

Over the next ten minutes or so, the game transformed – both of them seemed to have got into their stride, and were thinking ahead, not just of the immediate tactics, but of long-term strategy. Groups of stones would be deliberately sacrificed in setting up a counter-attack, or a foray staged in one corner of the board to distract attention from the killer blow planned elsewhere. And all the time, Lothíriel took glances at Éomer to try to read his thoughts, while becoming aware that he was doing exactly the same to her. Every so often, their surreptitious glances would coincide, and each time, it was as if a physical sensation ran through Lothíriel, a tremor like the spark from dry silk pulled over one's head. Really, the whole situation was becoming most unsettling. There was also the realisation that his half-smile was not the most disarming thing about his features – every so often (usually when he had gulled her with a feint elsewhere on the board, only to deliver the coup de grace right under her nose), the half smile would broaden into a grin. And the grin really did terrible things for Lothíriel's concentration.

Eventually, after yet another feint, Éomer leant back once more in his seat, and gave yet another grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling, white teeth glinting. He put his hands behind his head and raised his eyebrows. “Well?”

Lothíriel looked at the board in considerable surprise. “I do believe you have created an unassailable position.”

Éomer gave a knowing smile, and said, in an almost perfect imitation of her diplomatic tone of voice, “I do believe I have.”

The words found their way out of Lothíriel's mouth before she had a chance to reflect on them. “So you're more than just a pretty face.”

Éomer's smile turned from knowing to positively wicked. “From what I've seen of the way Gondy men treat their sheilas, shouldn't that be my line?”

For once in her life, Lothíriel was left speechless, her mouth open in a silent “oh”. Eventually gathering her wits, she managed to squeak “Touché!” 

At the other side of the tent, Princess Isteth bent over her embroidery frame, stifling a laugh. Suddenly, for the first time since the whirl of social events at Cormallen engulfed them, she felt a lot less depressed by her daughter's intellectual eccentricities.


	9. The varied lessons of Elven poetry

Lady Siliveth was fretful. She had been so excited at the prospect of Bronaer's departure, even though she knew that the reason for it was his desire to spend time with “that tart of his in the White City,” as she mentally referred to Lady Gwenneth. Whereas in the past, such blatant unfaithfulness would have left her feeling torn by anger and inadequacy, now she found that she no longer gave a fig about his behaviour. She had fatter geese to cook. Or rather, younger, more dashing geese. But alas! There were no social engagements planned that evening. Thus instead she found herself keeping her younger, hopelessly naive sister company. She loved Merilwen dearly, but found her company sadly tedious when consumed in large doses.

Salvation came in the form of the arrival of Lady Aglarel, cousin of Errisil (she whose unfortunate features had led Éomer to reflect that much as he loved horses, that love did not stretch to wishing to marry one). Aglarel was as beautiful as her cousin was plain, and what was more, lively, witty and sparkling to boot. She was also married, and in contrast to most women of her class had managed to contract a love match. (Ivriniel would no doubt have opined at this point that such good fortune was only possible because Aglarel, though prettier than Errisil, lacked the latter's fortune and high connections: her father was a mere knight, not a duke, and thus there was no _noblesse_ to _oblige_ ).

Aglarel swept into the tent accompanied by a rustling of silk and cloud of fine perfume, and positively threw herself upon the chaise longue, heaving a theatrical sigh. Just in case her audience had missed the mood she meant to impress upon them, she drew her hand dramatically across her brow. 

“Darlings, I am in dire need of diversion. Nary a social event to be had this evening. What is a girl to do to entertain herself?”

“Well, if I had a husband like yours, I'm sure I could think of something,” Siliveth replied, one delicate eyebrow raised.

Merilwen gave a shocked gasp, Aglarel a tinkling giggle. “I grant you, darling, if Taurwar were here, I would not be reclining on _your_ sofa. But he has been charged with delivering supplies of ale to the ranger garrison in the woods. There are still too many enemy soldiers around the place to leave it entirely unmanned, apparently, but it was thought a fitting gesture to provide them with the means to celebrate our victory.”

“My goodness, how lucky you are to have been allowed to marry for love,” said Merilwen, giving a sigh of her own, though hers was as artless as Aglarel's had been arch.

“Goodness had nothing to do with it,” Aglarel said with a saucy wink. “Let us just say I found a way of forcing father's hand.”

“You do lead a charmed life, though, my dear,” said Siliveth, with an admirably straight face. “Why, not only did you meet the most dashing of men, and have your father consent to your marriage, your poor dear premature bairn, despite our anxiety before his arrival, turned out to be so hale and hearty, and really quite encouragingly plump.”

“Was that not fortunate indeed?” said Merilwen, her expression serious at the thought of tragedy averted. “Dame Ioreth said he was as plump as many a full-term babe she had birthed.” 

“Quite. Perhaps you ate for two? Or maybe even two and a half, to make up for lost time?” offered up Siliveth, looking at Aglarel, who hid her countenance behind her fan.

“Well, Ioreth did say it was not unknown – particularly with first bairns – to be early yet healthy,” Merilwen added. Silveth searched her sister's face for any sign that the latter might be being disingenuous, but found only an earnest sincerity as Merilwen continued, “So romantic, his being 'born of the wedding night', as the saying has it. Rumour has it that it is a sign of great good luck to be thus fathered, so perhaps that accounts for your son's good health.” Merilwen was taken aback to find her sister overcome by a coughing fit, and hastily signalled to the servant by the tent entrance to fetch some water.

“Oh,” said Aglarel, fluttering her fan, “I am indeed blessed to be married to Taurwar.”

“Named after the great romantic hero of Elven legend, was he not?” said Siliveth, finally controlling her breathing. “One of the few epic poems I have actually read.”

Merilwen's eyes widened. “But Siliveth, was that not one of the works our governess expressly said was not suitable for maidens?”

“Did she? You know I can't quite remember. I do remember finding it highly… educational.”

“Well, if it was educational, perhaps I am mistaking it for another work entirely.”

The fluttering of Aglarel's fan became even more pronounced, obscuring once more the lower half of her face.

Siliveth was silent for a moment, then broke into a slightly sly expression. “Thinking of poetic classics, did you ever read _The lay of the lovers beneath the stars_?”

Merilwen said, “I read a version deemed suitable for children. Wasn't it about an elleth married to one of Thingol's courtiers, who fell in love with a young warrior, then, contrary to the Laws of the Eldar, ran off with him behind her husband's back? The husband, consumed by a jealous rage, pursued them and they, forsaken by the Valar for breaking Eru's sacred commandments, tried to cross a river in spate only to be swept away and drowned in the icy waters. A cautionary tale to stay true to one's wedding vows. Not that I should need such a tale. If I am ever lucky enough to marry my darling Arodon, I simply cannot conceive of ever looking at another man.”

“Oh ho!” exclaimed Aglarel, cheerfully ignoring Merilwen's schoolroom summary of the plot and fixing her gaze on Siliveth. “So that's how it is. You have met your young warrior, and are wondering how to pull the wool over Bronaer's eyes. Can't say I blame you.”

“Well, there is that. But that wasn't exactly what I was thinking of...” Siliveth drew a deep breath. “Oh, it's so hard to explain. But you know there's a sequence of verses where the elven bride agonises over her choice, because she loves both her husband and her lover. And the poetry captures so perfectly the confusion of loving two people at once, and having one's heart split in twain.”

“The only thing I'm struggling to understand is the idea that your heart is split – what on earth loyalty you feel to Bronaer after his dreadful behaviour is utterly beyond my ken...”

“No, not Bronaer,” said Siliveth faintly.

“So if it's not Bronaer versus whichever young buck has taken your fancy, are you trying to say that you have two favourites? My, how thrilling.” Aglarel propped herself up on one elbow, folding the fan with a snap before reaching across to tap Siliveth on the leg. “You naughty, naughty girl. I am quite jealous at the thought of the excitement.”

“Well, yes, it is thrilling,” admitted Siliveth, turning pink. “But how do I choose?”

“Well, presuming you are not going to do anything so foolish as to run off with them in reality (especially if the running off ends in an icy river – after all, while the little death is quite delightful, one really should avoid his elder brother) why not flirt outrageously with both? In fact, you could try to get them competing with one another for your favour.”

Merilwen gave a gasp of horror at this proposed perfidy. Siliveth and Aglarel burst out laughing.

“So, am I to know the names of your dashing admirers?”

Siliveth was about to answer, then caught sight of Merilwen, and thought better of it. She certainly did not wish to mention Amrothos in front of his sister's dearest friend. “Let us just call them 'Beren' and… 'Eorl', for the time being.”

“Eorl! So, a dashing Rohirrim with that wonderful hair… Surely not their king.”

“Good heavens, no. Far too much competition. With your cousin the front runner?”

“Errisil,” snorted Aglarel. “She's a truly lovely, sweet girl, but alas! When it comes to looks, she is not exactly what one might call a non-pareil. And in any case, I rather got the impression that the king might have his sights set higher… after all, a duke's daughter is trumped by a princess.”

“If the princess is interested. But what if she had already formed a connection elsewhere” Siliveth's words were interrupted by Algarel's questioning moue. Siliveth hastened to explain. “Your uncle has certain political connections among the old guard in the court at Minas Tirith. And Bronaer would like access to those connections. And I of course would like any situation which would keep me in dresses and jewellery and generally prevent life with Bronaer becoming too tedious. So it would suit both him and me rather well to help your uncle. So my _beloved_ husband has been fostering an alternative match for Lothíriel, to leave the field clear for your cousin.”

“So that's why you're pressing Lothíriel towards a man for whom she obviously holds no esteem.” Merilwen gasped (yet again) at her sister's mercenary machinations. She seemed, Siliveth reflected, to spend much of her life in a state of surprise – her grasp of situations generally lagged somewhere between three minutes and three weeks behind everyone else's. Or, in the case of Aglarel's 'child of the wedding night', a good three months.

“Don't fret, Merilwen. Lord Mabglor is a war hero, a charming man, and really quite handsome. I know you think Lothíriel was lukewarm when we talked to her about it this morning, but you didn't see her last night. She was ever so sweet last night when we introduced them – in the company of her parents, for propriety's sake, of course. She was positively speechless with shyness. Most unlike her, so I can only think she was really taken with him. I'm quite hopeful that we've found the ideal match for her, and it won't take her far from her family, or from you, dear sister.”

Siliveth was just congratulating herself on the fact that the conversation had drifted away from “Beren” and “Eorl” when the attendant held the tent flap to one side to admit a messenger. He bowed low and handed a slip of parchment to her. All aflutter with excitement, Siliveth broke the seal and read quickly, her colour rising in a most fetching way as she did so.

“Beren or Eorl?” asked Aglarel, raising an eyebrow.

“Beren,” Siliveth replied, blushing still more.

“Ah, Gondor wins by a chance roll of the die.”

“Oh Siliveth, do be careful. Think of the damage to your reputation,” said Merilwen.

“Fear not, dear hear. All I intend is for him to pay me a few pretty compliments of the sort I so rarely receive from Bronaer, and maybe let him kiss my hand.”

“Hmm,” was Aglareth's only comment.

~o~O~o~

Some hours after the conversation between the court ladies, on the other side of the encampment, the king of the Mark returned to his tent. He had spent the evening with Éothain, and possibly had a mug of ale more than he should, but was not more than mildly merry. He was relieved to have escaped from dining with King Elessar, as he had to admit he was tired of the social whirl. What was more, concentration was not entirely what it should have been, and once or twice Éothain had pulled him up for wool-gathering, with an annoying grin. He suspected that his second-in-command knew exactly which direction his thoughts were wandering in.

Now he was back in his own tent, he could at last gather as much wool as he felt like, and let his mind drift as it wanted. And of course, the direction it wanted to drift in was to a pair of grey eyes sparkling as their owner concentrated on the wooden board and handful of pebbles spread across it. So, the princess was as intelligent as she was beautiful. That complicated matters. His whole defensive strategy had been based round admitting the existence of his feelings but then dismissing them as mere physical attraction towards an obviously beautiful woman. After all, as he kept telling himself, he needed a queen, not just a warm, supple body in his bed. 

Although even as he framed that thought to himself, he knew he did both her and himself a disservice: he was drawn as much to her character and lively wit as to her appearance. Though there was no denying the fact that a large part, a very large part of his mind, had a tendency to be preoccupied by thoughts of Lothíriel's supple body. And he was quite sure it would feel warm in his arms. And that glorious hair – how would that look spread across the pillows? Those grey eyes, dark with desire? Those full lips, not pursed in concentration, but parted ready to be kissed. He gave his head a shake to try to clear it. This line of thought really would not do at all. He could not foist a queen on his country just because he couldn't get the thought of her hips curving beneath wet breeches out of his head. That was the basis on which one chose a mistress, not a queen. Though a man lucky enough to have a woman like Lothíriel in his bed would be a blaardy fool to take a mistress.

Yet now he had discovered she was intelligent too, a nagging, tempting voice had started whispering in his mind that perhaps she was not entirely unsuitable. But still: there was her age. She was much too young. And (here he recalled Hilde's masterfully detailed letter) he had no reason to suppose she had the sort of practical intelligence he needed. Skill at the encircling game could and often did go hand-in-hand with a sort of head-in-the-clouds scholarly approach to the world; what he needed was someone with common sense. 

One thing that this whole carry on had established was his gradually coming round to the idea that his advisers were right: he needed a wife. But he would wait till he got home and find some sensible sheila from the Mark, who knew the ins and outs of the country and could be the sort of queen he needed. He tried, and failed, to picture a young Hilde. (By all accounts she'd been a looker when she was young, and Elfhelm apparently a handsome fella – in fact, rumour had it her belly had already grown round when they said their wedding words – but he just couldn't get his head round that particular thought. Probably just as well, since he needed to look Elfhelm, and Hilde, in the face next time he saw them.) Still, sense and practical intelligence and maturity was what he needed – with a bit of luck he could find a woman who had these and didn't look like his sister's battle axe. Éomer leant back in his chair and shut his eyes. It had been a really long evening, and he should go to bed, but that would take effort... 

“Sire, sire!” The voice was urgent, desperate even. “Come quickly. It's Firefoot. He's got colic!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taurwar, named after the Elven lover of (recently invented) ancient legend, appears courtesy of Queefqueen – his namesake first appears in Queefqueen's “Love is a form of madness.” And with apologies to Mae West for stealing one of her most famous lines.


	10. Of Haradrim and horses

A few hours before Firefoot's unfortunate predicament became apparent, Lothíriel had found herself in exalted company. While Merilwen listened to Siliveth and Aglarel consider the finer points of flirtation, and Éomer downed mugs of ale with his Marshal, she had enjoyed a rather splendid evening. Her father had taken her and her aunt to dinner with King Elessar. It proved to be as stimulating and interesting a dinner party as the previous night's had been torturous. The first surprise was the presence of a somewhat foppish young man, standing behind the king's shoulder.

The prince bowed deeply; the princesses followed his lead and swept deep curtsies.

The king inclined his head, then ushered the younger man forward. “This is Lord Úron, aide to Lord Faramir. He has come in person to deliver dispatches from Minas Tirith.”

The young man swept an extravagant and graceful bow, the primrose silk of his sleeves billowing as he did so.

“Please, do not stand on ceremony,” the king added with a smile. Lothíriel looked at the king, trying not to show her curiosity. It was the first time she had had a chance to study him at relatively close quarters, and in relatively quiet surroundings away from the bustle of balls and tourneys. He was of indeterminate age, at first glance younger than her father, though she knew (having done her homework) that he was in fact older. He wore rich but understated garments, in which he looked not entirely at home. His hair fell in unruly curls beneath a thin circlet of mithril, which again, looked somewhat incongruous. He somehow caught the direction of her gaze.

“Your father suggested I wear this – I am not sure it is entirely appropriate, given that I have not yet been crowned.”

“It is merely a mark of royal blood sir, such as any prince of the land might wear, Sire,” said Imrahil smoothly. “You may have noticed I am wearing something similar.”

The king clapped Imrahil on the back and said, “But I think I know you well enough now to know that you take rather more care over your dress than I do.” Lothíriel tried not to laugh; her mother had been joking about her father's peacock-like tendencies for years – in fact she often suggested that he spent more time on his toilette than she did on her own. The king, meanwhile, extended his hand to Aunt Ivriniel and lifted her hand close to his lips (clearly, he had at some point learned the finer points of Gondorian etiquette, despite his years of wandering). “Madam, pray be seated.”

Once all five of them had settled round a low table and a selection of dishes and drinks set before them, the servants retired.

“To business, then,” said Elessar. “I thank you all for your attendance. I am anxious to establish two things. Firstly, I want to know how things stand regarding food supplies – both for provisioning Gondor, and for sending aid to our brothers in Rohan for the coming winter. I understand that you, Princess Lothíriel, have been in charge of the running of Dol Amroth in your father's absence, and furthermore, have made sure provisions both from your own principality and the surrounding lands have made their way to Minas Tirith after the siege was lifted.”

Lothíriel found herself the centre of attention, explaining in detail how she had kept track of the state of affairs, arranged the equitable distribution of food, and made sure that landowners and farmers were duly compensated for any food which had to be commandeered. She explained, with the aid of several sheets of parchment, the arrangements she had made by way of trade agreements, lines of credit, loans from the banking families in the fourth circle of Minas Tirith, and so forth. Although she had given her father an outline previously, this was the first time he had seen the details; out of the corner of her eye, Lothíriel could see him beaming proudly, and felt a bubble of pleasure at his reaction.

“But was not your mother in charge in your father's absence?” asked Lord Úron.

Imrahil spoke. “Nominally, my wife, Princess Isteth, was indeed in charge. But while my wife is a gifted healer and herbalist, she has no head for figures...”

“Mother and I divided the responsibilities between us. She kept up morale and made sure that people knew they were being looked after, and, crucially, treated the wounded after Corsair raids on the coast. I made sure that the provisions and material necessary to look after them was at hand,” Lothíriel added.

“Thank you for your summary, Princess. I feel confident that, in the light of your hard work, we shall be able to ensure that no-one, either in Gondor or in Rohan, goes hungry this coming winter.” The king's face was serious, but Lothíriel sensed a warmth in his eyes that suggested he was as pleased with her as her father was. “And now, Princess Ivriniel, I should like to ask you about the second topic of discussion. What we are to do with the Haradrim? My understanding is that you will be able to provide me with invaluable first hand knowledge.”

“To add to your own… Captain Thorongil...” said Ivriniel, with a knowing glance.

Lothíriel was thrown into complete confusion.

“Ah, so you recognise me from my previous visit to Gondor.” The king smiled, a genuine, but slightly dangerous looking smile.

“How could one forget?” replied Ivriniel.

Imrahil, seeing Lothíriel's puzzlement, explained “King Elessar, in his younger days, visited Gondor incognito, and served under Steward Ecthelion, undertaking various missions including ones to Umbar, the debatable lands and beyond into the Haradwaith.”

“If memory serves me,” said the king, “You were captain of the ship that took me to Umbar.”

“I was indeed.”

“Your seamanship was beyond reproach, which is more than can be said for the bottle of rum we shared in your cabin to celebrate our return to Dol Amroth.”

“My somewhat belated apologies,” said Imrahil, sketching a bow. “I can assure you that I am now older and wiser, and keep a much better cellar.”

The king gave a laugh, then grew serious once more as he continued, “Lord Úron has delivered an admirably thorough briefing document from your nephew, the new Steward, detailing his understanding of the situation in the Haradwaith prior to the various kingdoms there forming an alliance under the Black Serpent, and his subsequent swearing of fealty to Sauron. Lord Faramir was also at pains to place the situation in its historical context. I'm not sure, given what I remember of my time in some of the Southron kingdoms, that I agree with all the details, but I certainly agree with the broad outline of his analysis. And I'm more than happy to concede that his viewpoint may be informed by more recent events; it is two score years since I travelled in that part of the world.”

Ivriniel nodded. “Faramir is likely to be correct in most of his details, but if I may, I will borrow his communication and read it thoroughly in my own time. But be assured that he speaks the three main Haradric dialects fluently, and reads the classical form of the language. He is thus well placed to make sense of any documents which have been intercepted, and to understand their significance. He is also likely to have had access to reports from my agents there. Notwithstanding, I will see what I can add to his assessment of the situation.”

She and Elessar then fell to discussing the politics of the region in detail, with Imrahil and his daughter largely reduced to the role of interested spectators. Lothíriel felt slightly overwhelmed by detail – Ivriniel, of course, having travelled widely in these southern lands, was massively knowledgeable, and King Elessar knew almost as much, although his grasp was slightly out-of-date. Gradually, however, Lothíriel began to put together the pieces, and the overall picture gradually emerged. 

She had a rough idea of the situation from her tutor's guidance when she was younger. The foundation of Umbar was ancient indeed, and it was there that Ar Pharazon had received Sauron's surrender, millienia earlier in the Second Age – a surrender which must have seemed like a great virctory at the time, but which in fact only opened the way for Sauron to corrupt the king. It had been lost to Gondor at the time of the Kinslaying, and many still rued its loss. And not merely because of a longing for lost land and glory; it was of considerable strategic importance, and was now the fortified port from which pirates raided her own coast. But as she listened to Ivriniel and Elessar, she realised that while her history books told of the Gondorian city of Umbar as a glorious part of Gondor's heritage, some of the inhabitants of those lands did not tell the history in quite the same way: they remembered centuries of oppression and slavery at the hands of Black Numenoreans. The situation if anything had got worse rather than better after the loss of Umbar (or, if one were Haradrim, the overthrow of their Gondorian overlords). Centuries of internicine turf wars had followed, with petty warlords vying with one another to become despots. Eventually, weakened by war and famine, the Haradrim had turned to Sauron not out of inherent wickedness, but out of desperation

 

While Lothiriel might draw a clear distinction between her own ancestors and the Black Numenoreans who had so corrupted the legacy of Elros, it appeared that these nuances did not enter the Haradrim's understanding of the situation. She found that The Haradrim believed the Numenoreans – all Numenorians, to have to sown the wind and reaped the whirlwind, when it came to their claim to the debatable lands. The discussion was a most sobering experience, and she found herself almost longing for the society tittle-tattle of Siliveth as an alternative to the discomfort of having doubts cast on her complacent beliefs about the rightness of her own side and the inherent evil of her enemies.

“So, what is to be done in the longer term?” the king asked. “In the immediate future, the various Haradrim tribes are likely to be quite subdued, but once the wounds of war have healed, they will remember their age old, and understandable enmity towards the” descendants of Numenor.”

“Temper justice with mercy,” Ivriniel replied succinctly.

“But where to start?”

“You hold as hostages various important Haradrim, drawn from several of the kingdoms. Treat them fairly and humanely while in your keeping, however much Gondorian blood they may have shed, and negotiate fair rather than punitive terms for their ransom.”

“If my intelligence is right, Princess, you have yourself been to visit the camp already.”

Ivriniel smiled. “My grasp of the Haradric tongue is not as firm as my nephew's, but it suffices for basic conversation.”

Elessar gave an answering, somewhat enigmatic smile; Lothíriel suspected he was not fooled by her aunt's down-playing of her linguistic abilities. She knew that Ivriniel prided herself on gaining considerable fluency in any language she considered to be of strategic importance. If one was not fluent, she always said, one could not pick up on nuance, and without nuance, there could be no diplomacy (and equally importantly, no espionage). The King spoke, in measured tones.

“And your assessment of the prisoners is?”

“The most important is crown prince Alazar, heir to King Amudin. He comes from one of the coastal kingdoms south of Umbar, and the only one with sufficient military might and natural resources to provide any real challenge to the kingdom of the now deceased Black Serpent.”

“Talking of whom, who is likely to succeed the Serpent?”

“His eldest sons also fell on the Pelennor – he himself was slain by Théoden, Éomer saw to his offspring. He has a younger son, still in his minority, and has left his brother, the boy's uncle, as regent. I should not be surprised if some sort of internal power struggle were to ensue. Regents tend to get rather too comfortable in the position, but one may set against that the fact that the younger son's mother comes from one of the most militarily powerful fiefdoms in the realm, and her family will not relinquish their grip on power without a fight. Hopefully, internal strife will keep them busy for at least five to ten years, and if we can consolidate links with Amudin in the mean time by returning his son to him unharmed, and strengthen his position in the region, we can perhaps tip the balance of power in our favour in the longer term.”

“And what of Amudin's son? Is he the sort of man one can open a dialogue with, or is he still smarting at defeat?”

“Young,” answered Ivriniel. “An able warrior, but taken aback by the sheer horror of war on this scale, pride wounded by defeat, worried at the thought of whether he faces the ignominy of returning a coward if he is seen to be returned to his native land a ransomed prisoner.”

“I think I should perhaps visit him, pay him the courtesy of opening negotiations with his nation in person,” Elessar said thoughtfully. “I must rake through my memories for a few phrases in the language. And perhaps take a suitable gift – not too much, for he is my prisoner, but suitable to his station, and to indicate that we see him as a prisoner of considerable importance and value, whose well being we value. Were he not a prisoner a weapon – a jewelled sword, for instance – would be appropriate. But clearly not in these circumstances.”

Ivriniel nodded her assent. “In my conversation with him, I made a point of trying to draw him out about his interests in time of peace. Might I suggest a musical instrument – perhaps a lute? And write to my nephew to see if a telescope might be procured from one of the instrument makers in Minas Tirith: I gather he is interested in the movements of the constellations, and whether the future can be divined in the movements of the heavens.”

Lothíriel blurted out, “But you always said that was nonsense, Aunt.”

Ivriniel gave a gentle shake of her head. “Lothi, my dear, it matters not what I think of the activity. It is what Prince Alazar thinks of the activity that is of import.” She turned back to Elessar. “And then I shall turn my attention to trying to come up with a strategy which will salve the young man's pride and make his eventual homecoming less ignoble in his eyes.”

~o~O~o~

_Wilfram would never have let this happen!_ Distracted for a moment by memories, Éomer found a lump forming in his throat at the thought of his faithful, long-serving groom, who had fallen before the Black Gates, one of all too many who had paid for their freedom with their life blood. He blinked a couple of times and forced himself back to the problem in hand.

 _Damn that daft boy!_ Edric, the young boy acting as temporary groom, had let Firefoot onto the rich pasture down by the water's edge. Now bloated on clover, the great war horse stood pawing the ground. Moments earlier he had been rolling but Éomer had managed to get him back on his feet, just. He placed a hand on the horse's belly. Bloated and tight as a drum… not a good sign. Feeling increasingly anxious, he leaned in and rested his cheek against the steel grey coat, pressing his ear against him. Nothing. Not a single thing. None of the usual gurgling, churning noises. _Poor bastard's so full of gas his stomach can't move._ Éomer reached for a handful of straw and started to rub the sweat from Firefoot's flanks. 

“I can do that, Sire...” The boy was desperate to make amends.

“I think you've done enough!” As the words left his mouth, Éomer felt a slight twinge of guilt; the boy was clearly consumed by guilt. But it was such a stupid mistake to have made. How could anyone call themselves an Eorling and not have known you didn't let a horse gorge themselves on clover and rich weeds on the water meadows? As if reading his mind, the boy spoke.

“I'm sorry, Sire, really I am. I didn't know. I'm from the hill country above the Isen. I've not done much other than watch the sheep – the ground's too steep to run horses on.”

Éomer gave a grunt. “Bloody stupid thing to have done.” But his voice was not as angry as it had been before. He started to walk the horse round in a wide circle.

“Doesn't he need to rest, Sire?” asked the boy, anxiously.

_Béma, the runt really knows nothing at all about horses._ “If he lies down, danger is he'll get a twisted gut. No, we've got to keep walking him till his belly eases.”

So Éomer and Edric took turns walking Firefoot round in a wide circle. The moon passed its zenith, then set, leaving them walking by the light of the distant bonfires scattered around Cormallen. A couple of hours before dawn, by Éomer's reckoning, he went to swap once more with Edric, only to find the boy asleep. For a moment, Éomer looked down at him – barely thirteen summers, if that. The boy must have sneaked away to war far too young, evading his parents, lying to the sergeant, hiding his age. Éomer gave a faint smile. He was wrong – the boy was a true Eorling. Just a very, very young, inexperienced one. He vowed to make amends the next day.

Firefoot was finally beginning to move a bit more easily. Gritting his teeth, Éomer decided to try something he'd heard mentioned by Théoden's head groom back in Edoras, many winters past. He lifted Firefoot's tail and felt between his buttocks for the hollow just above the horse's arsehole. _Béma, what the faarkin' hell am I thinking?_ But as the old man had said all those years back, he pressed gently against the flesh… and was rewarded with the loudest, longest, smelliest fart he'd ever encountered.

Firefoot gave a nicker of relief, and turned his great head to Eomer. Circling, he butted his master gently in the midriff with his nose, in the time honoured gesture which said “Where are those carrots you promised me?”

“After the trouble you've put me through over the last few hours? I don't think so!” Eomer walked over and nudged Edric awake.

“He's on the mend now, lad. You go and tie him up with a nice long length of rope, so he can reach the horse trough and some grass, and he'll be right. Mind you don't make it so long the old bastard can get at any clover, though. I'm off to get some kip.” And on that note, Edric's King and liege lord took his leave and headed off across the meadow.

There was probably still a good hour to go until sunrise, but the sky was already lightening, becoming a steely grey. No one was stirring yet, though. Or at least, hardly anyone. As he moved beneath the trees at the edge of the meadow, Éomer's attention was caught by a sudden flash of warm, yellow candle-light as the flap of a tent was opened. A figure in flowing skirts flitted through the gap, and Éomer's first thought was to wonder whether it was Erin or one of her colleagues. But then a silvery giggle floated across the meadow, and Éomer, his eyes adjusting to the change in light, recognised Lady Siliveth. She drew her cloak around her shoulders, but Éomer could see that beneath it her dress was half undone and almost slipping from her, revealing her rather ample cleavage. Then a man appeared through the tent entrance, and pulled her into a farewell embrace. Éomer couldn't help a grin as he saw the man grab a handful of buttock with one hand and cop a feel of one of her shapely tits with the other. Then, as the couple turned on the spot, the light fell on the man's face, and Éomer realised with surprise that the man was none other than his friend, Amrothos.

“Like I said, right bunch of randy shaggers,” he muttered to himself, and continued on his way. Within a couple of hundred paces he reached his own tent, nodded to the guard outside, slid through the opening and fell into bed, still wearing his clothes, to sleep the well-earned sleep of the just.

He woke about noon, and hastily ate a bite of lunch before heading over to see Firefoot. To his relief, the horse seemed entirely recovered. It wasn't until later that afternoon that an awkward thought suddenly struck Éomer. He had written to Éowyn singing the praises of Amrothos as a potential suitor. And at the time he had meant it – the man was brave, intelligent, good natured, and funny, and as far as he could judge (not being a woman) good looking. What's more he came from an impeccably good family. But (and this was a very big but when considering possible future husbands for one's sister) it turned out the he was the sort of man who was prepared to shag another man's wife. _Bugger._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: details of colic thanks to Gwynnyd and the Ladies of the Garden of Ithilien. Artura very kindly corrected me on various mistakes concerning Numenorean history of the “Debatable Lands.” Any remaining mistakes are of course mine.


	11. Knocking the wind from her sails

How easy it was for one's good mood to be utterly deflated by a few chance words, Lothíriel reflected. The dinner party had lulled her into thinking that she could play a useful part in the political and economic life of her country. But overhearing a few remarks of Siliveth's had reminded her so starkly of the golden chains that simultaneously adorned and constrained her sex. 

She stirred the water idly with her toe as the river swirled gently beneath the bright green branches overhanging its banks. How dreadful that she was in danger of spending the rest of her life yearning for the sense of freedom she had only experienced during a war which might have led to the annihilation of all she held dear.

Last night had been, she realised in retrospect, quite wonderful. She had been praised for her handling of her country's affairs, for keeping her people fed, for ordering their defences, she had been included in discussions of the delicate political settlements which needed to be negotiated now the war was ended. But now she feared that this might have been a one-off. Down at the river, she had found herself surrounded by the usual court butterflies, and had to face the lowering thought that if she were to marry, her continued participation in any activities which might count as useful would be entirely contingent on her future husband's good will.

She also felt depressed at the thought of the impending storm when Bronaer returned, for if the snippets of the conversation had just overheard were any indication, Siliveth was not being discreet in the slightest. She had heard things really wished she hadn't.

“You stayed all night in his tent? You slept there?” Alglarel's voice had been breathless with excitement.

“Oh darling, I didn't sleep!” Siliveth and Aglarel had descended into giggles, before Siliveth had continued, “It was utterly, utterly blissful. I hadn't realised it could be so for the woman too...”

“And now you are in love!” Alglarel delivered this statement in a sing-song voice.

“Oh, stars above, no! At least I don't think so. Strange, is it not? I always thought one had to be, or ought to be, or something... No, not in love. But I am in love with what he could do. And some of the things he did – I hadn't realised you could...”

Lothíriel, consumed by embarrassment, had quietly made her way downstream out of earshot. Valar! Let this not be a vision of her future. Married by arrangement to a man she did not love, driven by boredom and a lack of respect on both sides to forget her honour. She picked up a stone and flung it across the water. She sat down on a boulder, then pulled off her shoes and hose. The water was sharp and cold, and the sensation took her mind off her maudlin mood for a moment or two. For a while she stared into the middle distance, losing herself in the swirls forming and vanishing in the lee of the boulders. She was not sure how long she let her mind drift, before a contralto voice interrupted her.

“You know, court gossip would like to paint us as rivals to the death, but I rather suspect we have more than a little in common, you and I...”

Lothíriel swung round to find the source of these words, and found herself confronted by the long, serious face of Lady Errisil.

“May I join you?” the lady asked.

Lothíriel nodded her assent, not quite sure how to respond to Errisil's opening gambit. Errisil sat down on a neighbouring boulder, and, to Lothíriel's surprise, also lifted the hem of her dress and dangled her feet in the water.

“I'm not in competition with you, by the way, however much my parents may wish it. Firstly, because I know my limitations – there is no escaping the fact that I am plain as a pikestaff.”

Lothiriel interjected a hasty demurral, but Errisil waved her hand with a rueful smile.

“I am: there's no denying it. I do, however, take some small comfort from the reflection that standards of plainess seem so arbitrary. Looking at paintings from ages past, there were perhaps even times when I would have been thought handsome, although not, alas, today. But leaving aside my looks, King Éomer really is not to my taste. Frankly, I find the physically powerful warrior god type of man terrifying, however much a certain type of woman may worship them.”

Lothíriel raised her eyebrows. “You think him terrifying? He has never been anything other than kind and thoughtful towards me.” As she said this, she wondered about this fact. He was large, and immensely physically imposing, but somehow this had never bothered her. If anything, when she had danced with him, she had found his size strangely comforting. How odd that Errisil's reaction was precisely the opposite. Then her brain caught up with the rest of Errisil's words, and she hastily set about rebutting the assumption that she was encouraging some sort of courtship.

“In any case, I do not think I am particularly in the running, for he has never treated me in any way that would suggest he sees me as other than my brothers' little sister. Nor do I want him to – for I do not very much fancy marriage to anyone.”

Errisil gave a snort of laughter, rapidly stifled. “I saw the way he looked at you as he danced with you. He definitely does not see you as your brothers' little sister. I should perhaps add that it is not him in particular that I find threatening, just that type of man in general. They remind me of incidents that I prefer not to dwell upon.”

Lothíriel almost asked what the situation was, but fortunately took a sidelong glance at her companion. What she saw on Errisil's face stopped her from probing further. It was as if the shutters had come down over her face; whatever had happened to her was certainly not up for discussion. 

They sat in silence for a few moments, before Errisil said, “It surprises me that you say you do not wish to marry. I should have thought if any woman were to succeed in such an enterprise, you would be the one best placed to do so.”

“Best placed?” Lothiriel replied, raising her eyebrows.

“Wealthy and beautiful! The former guarantees you a large pool of suitors from which to choose, the latter means that they are likelier than not to become genuinely attached to you and thus prove indulgent husbands.”

Lothíriel laughed. “I suspect that being the recipient of well-meant but vapid indulgence might become tedious rather quickly!” she said, thinking uncomfortably of Mabglor. Her companion gave a half-smile at her words. Encouraged, Lothíriel continued with her musings.

“I sometimes listen to my friends as they talk of suitors and marriage, as if it were the only aim in one's life, and think that perhaps I am mad to think as I do. But it has always struck me as more in the manner of a bear trap than a state to be aspired to. I think I like your hints that you see it as something of a desperate undertaking.”

Errisil smiled once more, though there was a hint of bitterness in her face. “Alike, and yet not so. At least you have a chance of a husband who likes you, for men fall in love with beauty and then, having lost their hearts, prove indulgent husbands. But all I can hope for is an arranged match with a man who wants my fortune – and will very clearly not want me.”

Lothíriel was not quite sure how to follow this up. Perhaps, she reflected, it was time for a change of subject. “If you could do anything you wanted, what would you choose to do?” 

“I should have loved to have been a musician. I am a talented viol player, if I may say so without bothering to affect the level of false modesty customarily expected of well bred young ladies. I sometimes think I would have been happier to be my father's natural daughter rather than his legitimate one; in Pinnath Gelin there is a famous school and hospital for foundlings where girls – the side-slips of gentlemen of standing – are offered a musical education. It would have been far more to my taste than being the daughter of a duke.” Errisil paused. “And you?”

“I have often wanted to follow in my aunt's footsteps – Princess Ivriniel has been travelling extensively for two score years now.” 

“Simply to travel? Or to engage in her predilection for espionage?”

“Espionage?” Lothíriel raised her eyebrows. “I simply do not know what you mean. She is merely a gifted amateur diplomat.” It was something of a standing joke among their social set that one never admitted to Aunt Ivriniel's calling in life. Errisil took her reply in good part, and merely smiled.

“Given that music seems ruled out as a calling for you, and… travel,” Lothíriel couldn't resist putting in a slight, ironic pause, “Is ruled out for me, what do you suppose we should do with ourselves?”

“I fear,” said Errisil, “That we will not get any say in the matter.”

Lothíriel made a harrumphing noise, which she realised immediately was in fact copied from her aunt. “That will not do at all. You and I are intelligent women… better still, I am certainly capable of deception and subterfuge as well, and I'm sure you could be too if you put your mind to it. We simply cannot leave these things to fate.”

She surveyed her surroundings. To her surprise, the crowds seemed to have thinned out considerably.

“I do believe it must be approaching lunchtime. Would you care to accompany me back to the tents? You are welcome to join my mama and me for a repast.”

She rose to her feet. Errisil did likewise. Then Lothíriel offered her arm, and the two set off through the trees like dear friends who had known one another for years. After a short walk they emerged onto the edge of the meadow, now so familiar to both of them. A new sight met their eyes, however. A large oval had been roped off – not as large as the one needed for Thar-rhevia, but still fairly sizeable. A group of Rohirrim were gathered, at one end of the field, together with Lothíriel's brothers and a small group of Swan Knights. What appeared to be a sheepskin, rolled into a ball and bound in shape with leather bands, lay on the ground just the other side of the rope boundary. Lothíriel looked up and down the makeshift fence, and spotted her aunt. She hastened to Princess Ivriniel's side.

“What in Elbereth's name is going on here?”

The princess turned and smiled. “Ah, it appears your brothers wish to see whether they can take on the Rohirrim in one of their traditional pastimes, following their ignominious defeat at Thar-rhevia.”

“And this pastime involves horses?” Lothíriel couldn't suppress a sceptical look.

“Yes.”

“And my brothers think this is their chance to gain their revenge?” Lothíriel's forehead wrinkled into a frown.

“Yes. Unlikely, isn't it?”

“Unlikely? Impossible, I would have said.”

“Well, quite, but it could be amusing watching your brothers discover this self-evident truth.”

“So what does the game involve?”

Her aunt gave her a thoughtful look. “It's called phêl. Apparently it originated in Dunland (the name is just their word for ball). Lots of galloping up and down, leaning out of one's saddle and attempting to grasp that woolly ball and throw it to one's team mates, with a view to getting it in the nets set up at either end of the pitch. I for one am relieved that it involves a woolly ball. If the historians are right, the game originated in the east and was brought to Rohan round about the time of the invasion of the Wainriders – and back then, it was played with a decapitated sheep's carcase! Thankfully they now make do with a bundled up sheepskin instead. Come, I'm told that it is most exciting to watch near one of the nets. I suspect the net to watch is the one your brothers' team will be attempting to defend – if my guess is correct, the Rohirrim will make free with the ball.”

As the three women strolled to the end of the pitch, the men on the field separated out into the two teams, and, wheeling their horses about, regrouped near their respective goals. Lothíriel watched two Rohirrim stride into the centre of the pitch, with a page who handed them the sheepskin ball. The page beat a hasty retreat behind the boundary rope, and King Éomer and Amrothos (on his new destrier) advanced to within a dozen horse-lengths of one another. From somewhere on the opposite boundary, the brassy bray of a horn split the air. The two men swung the ball, first back behind them, then forward and upwards with all their strength, and it soared high. The men jogged away to the boundary as the ball fell. With loud cries of “Eorlingas” and “Dol Amroth”, Éomer and Rothos charged towards the ball.

The King of Rohan got there first (Lothíriel was not in the slightest bit surprised by this) and leaned at a dangerous angle from his saddle to grab the ball by one of its leather straps. Amrothos arrived a stride or so later, and let his horse's hind quarters drift into Éomer's mount, obviously hoping that the collision might unseat him. _Foolish boy,_ thought Lothíriel. _One might as well tilt at a mountainside_. Entirely predictably, King Éomer's horse didn't move an inch. A child's pony careening into a carthorse would have made as much impact as Amrothos' showy destrier. Éomer's horse turned, seemingly on the spot, and sprang into a gallop down the pitch. Presumably confused by the fact that his initial move had had no effect whatsoever, Amrothos hesitated, and lost valuable time in his pursuit. However, all was not lost. Between Éomer and the goal were several swan knights, Lothíriel's middle brother among them. Erchirion spurred his horse forward, trying to block the King's path. 

Éomer was close enough now that Lothíriel could see his face. To her amusement, rather than the aggressive concentration on Erchirion's face, Éomer's was lit with a look of unadulterated joie-de-vivre. She could see his white teeth glinting as a broad grin spread from ear to ear. He seemed to check his horse's stride for a moment, almost as if drawing Erchirion into a challenge, then at the last moment threw the ball to Éothain, and nudged his horse to swerve round Erchirion's. Yet another of Lothíriel's brothers was left floundering in no-man's land. Lothíriel couldn't help the answering grin that spread across her own face.

“Whose side are you on?” asked her aunt, but her tone was one of amusement.

“That of anyone who can put my annoying brothers in their place,” Lothíriel responded.

“An understandable attitude,” Ivriniel answered, urbanely. There was a resounding thud fas Éothain flung the sheepskin ball into the Gondorian goal. Lothíriel gave a hearty cheer to rival those from the watching Rohirrim standing on the opposite side of the pitch; her compatriots clapped politely in the interests of good sportsmanship.

As the two Rohirrim from the start of the game retrieved the ball and carried it back towards the centre of the oval, Lothíriel overheard a fragment of conversation from nearby. A couple of girls stood hanging against the rope. She recognised one as Aglarel's younger sister, a singularly foolish young woman of about sixteen. Their words made her heart leap into her mouth.

"Silly ninny, of course it's not dangerous. The Rohirrim are superb horsemen. Just wait till the ball comes this way then dart towards Lord Theodric's horse. He'll be sure to pluck you up onto his saddle to safety. It will be so romantic."

Lothíriel gasped. Surely no one could be that stupid? But then she had spent enough time with Aglarel and Siliveth to realise that one rarely erred by guessing on the low rather than the high side when it came to their intelligence. She noticed that Aunt Ivriniel had her beady eye on her, waiting to see how she would react to the situation. Quietly, she sidled up behind the two girls. As one of the Rohirrim – Lord Theodric, she assumed – came thundering down the wing ready to receive the ball, Aglarel's sister stepped towards the boundary rope, starting to lift it with one hand. Lothíriel's own hand shot out, and she took a firm grasp of the girl's girdle, yanking it backwards. Too firm a grasp, in fact, for with a shriek the girl tottered backwards, tipping both herself and Lothíriel onto the ground.

Lothíriel's head smacked hard against the ground, leaving her seeing sparkling stars. The girl landed on top, winding her, and for several moments, Lothíriel was unable to do anything beyond lie on the ground, gasping for air like a beached fish. As she lay, unable to move or speak, a shadow came over her. She squinted up towards the sky.

“Are you all right, your highness?” The deep voice sounded highly amused. Casting her hand over her eyes to shade them, she managed to make out the King of Rohan's face, gradually coming into focus.

“I think she is merely winded...” Aunt Ivriniel's voice sounded as though she was struggling not to laugh out loud. “Sir Garanor's daughter lost her footing and was about to stumble into the path of one of your horsemen, and my niece bravely pulled her out of the horse's path, but both of them ended up overbalancing – though fortunately in the direction of safety as you can see.”

“Ah.” Lothíriel was not quite sure what to make of that noise. She had a feeling that King Éomer was laughing at her, but she couldn't be absolutely certain. Perhaps he was more of a diplomat than she had given him credit for. “Allow me to assist you, Princess.” He extended a hand, and feeling rather embarrassed, she took it, letting herself be pulled to her feet.

In her confusion, she could not bring herself to look him in the eye. Instead, she looked at his hand, holding hers. It was so large, enveloping her own in a strong grip, his skin warm against hers, comforting and somehow discomfiting all at once. His wrist looked so solid it could have been carved from oak, his forearm lined with sinew and muscle beneath tanned skin, a dusting of golden hairs glistening in the afternoon light. She was aware of her breathing, fast and shallow, and a feeling of warmth in her cheeks. Perhaps, Lothíriel found herself thinking, it would have been safer to have looked at his face. Tentatively she glanced up.

He looked down at her, a smile crinkling the corners of his grey-blue eyes. His face – the gold of his beard, the outline of his lips showing through – no, this was not helping, this was not safe at all. This was quite the opposite of safe. This was a heady, intoxicating draught, this was the moment poised on the cliff top before the swallow-dive into ice cold water. His gaze met hers, and it was as if she had made the leap from the cliff-edge, her stomach lurching – a strange excitement. His smile seemed to fade, his eyes widened, his look became as intent and all-consuming as the strange feelings consuming her. She could have sworn that the air between them crackled like the strange flames that sometimes licked at a ship's rigging during a storm.

“Perhaps, if his majesty could spare a moment from the game, he could assist you to my pavilion, Lothíriel, my dear. You look slightly dazed. I think maybe you cracked your head as you fell. Perhaps you should lie down for a while.” Her aunt's voice cut through the crackling tension, which deflated like a sail fluttering slackly as the wind dropped.

“Of course, your highness,” Éomer replied. Was it her imagination, or did he too sound slightly flustered? He offered her his arm, and led her across the green turf to Princess Ivriniel's tent. Errisil followed behind with her aunt.

“Ah, Lady Errisil, dear. Could you assist Princess Lothíriel in retiring to the day couch in my tent? Your majesty, you have my sincere thanks – pray, do not let me keep you from your game any longer.”

With Éomer's departure, Lothíriel sank down onto the couch. Errisil helped to draw an embroidered coverlet over her. She realised that she was indeed feeling rather dizzy. Inwardly she heaved a sigh of relief: clearly that had been what was behind the strange turn she had suffered, as Éomer helped her back to her feet. No need to search for complex reasons for her confusion – a bump on the head would leave anyone feeling confused and flustered.

“Now my dear, shut your eyes for a while and rest,” Ivriniel said firmly. “Lady Errisil, would you care to join me for some tea?”

Lothíriel lay back on the couch and allowed herself to drift into a doze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided that if the Rohirrim are modelled on the Saxons, then, given that they displaced the native Dunlendings when Eorl the Young was gifted the “empty” lands to the north by Gondor following the battle of Celebrant, then the Dunlendings are arguably the ancient British – hence my choice of “phêl”, Welsh for ball, for what may be a slightly recognisable game (the etymology of its real name being, of course the Tibetan word pulu, ball, Anglicised to polo).
> 
> The hospital for foundlings in Pinnath Gelin is of course modelled on the Ospedale della Pietà in Venice, where Vivaldi taught.
> 
> With many thanks to the ladies of the Garden of Ithilien for many helpful comments on this chapter (any remaining infelicities are mine!)


	12. Inadvertent Eavesdropping

Lothíriel was not sure how long she slept for – not too long, she guessed, by the angle of the sun coming through the flap in the tent. Outside, she could hear the voice of her aunt, conversing with someone.

“So there you are, my dear, that is my offer. While I like to think I offer generous remuneration, it may not be as lucrative in the short term as your present employ, but as I am sure you are aware, there is no long term as far as that is concerned. And if it helps you to make your mind up, you may be interested to know that I have offered that rather nice Rohirric young man, Aelfred, a position as my sergeant at arms.”

There was a pause, then a voice said, “I'm not sure how to put this in front of the young lady there...”

Lothíriel frowned, trying to place the voice. Then she realised – it was Erchirion's camp follower, the one with the surprising talent for bowling. Her frown vanished with a smile as she remembered the sharply rising ball which had paid Erchirion back for his crude attempt to bait her during the game of Thar-rhevia.

“If you mean Lady Errisil,” came her aunt's voice, “I'm sure she will not take a fit of the vapours, and in any case I don't hold with bringing young women up in a state of woeful ignorance about the ways of the world. That does far more harm than good when circumstances later contrive to disillusion them, usually in the cruellest way imaginable. However, perhaps we should ask Lady Errisil.”

“Do not hesitate to speak plainly on my account, Mistress Erin.” Lothiriel had not difficulty in recognising Errisil's voice. “I may be young and inexperienced myself, but I am aware that not all men remain faithful to their wives, and that some prefer their infidelities to be conducted on a business footing.”

Thus reassured, Erin spoke, although she still sounded rather reticent. “The thing is, surely a princess like yourself wouldn't want a tart as her maid in waiting?” 

“Come now, I pass no judgement on your choice of occupation – whether freely chosen or brought upon you by circumstance. After all, I have been around high society for long enough to know that there are more than a few titled women who flit between gentlemen's beds with aplomb; why should I hold it against you? Mind you, not that I see anything wrong with a bit of bed flitting when done discreetly – what is sauce for the gander ought to be available to the goose as well!”

Lothíriel nearly let out a peal of laughter at the recollection of the conversation she had overheard earlier. Siliveth, it would seem, was far from unique in her current behaviour. Her aunt continued.

“No, you are clearly a quick-witted young woman, and, equally importantly, quite capable of holding your own and commanding the attention of those around you. Your captaincy of the team during the match was first rate, and I am old fashioned enough to think there is some truth to that phrase about 'the playing fields of Numenor'. And do not think I am interested in your skills in primping my greying hair for me. I need you to organise my household – itinerant as it is – and, where necessary, help me out in, how shall I put it, the gathering of intelligence. The monetary rewards may not be as high as you currently enjoy, but there will be adventure, and travel to exotic, far-flung lands.”

“Where are you planning on going?”

“In the first instance, probably the Haradwaith. I have managed to persuade King Elessar of the importance of trying to form alliances with those tribes there who might be less inclined to wage war on us in future.”

There was a gap in the conversation. Lothíriel could picture her aunt, pretending to nibble a biscuit, but in fact simply leaving a long enough silence to force the other person to speak. It was a tactic Lothíriel had watched her employ on many occasions, especially when trying to get her brothers to confess to childhood misdemeanours. 

Eventually Erin said thoughtfully, “I'd be a bit worried going down there. I mean, I've heard stuff about them having lots of wives, and the Umbarian Corsairs kidnapping women from the coast to ship down there as concubines… I know that probably sounds funny, seeing as I'm a tart and that, but I've always had the good luck to work for myself, get to choose the blokes I take coin from, not worked for a man running a whole house of girls, where the girls just have to bed whoever they're told to while the bloke pockets all the profits… Never had a lot of time for whoremasters, myself. Nasty pieces of work, usually.”

“I think you'll find the rumours rather exaggerated. I suspect there were as many houses of ill-repute in the outer circle of Minas Tirith before the bombardment as there are in the average city of the south. Not that that makes it any better; just that whoremasters, as you so succinctly describe them, seem to pop up with obscene but predictable regularity in many cultures. They are not unique to the Haradrim, tempting as it is to demonise one's erstwhile enemy.”

Another voice spoke. To Lothíriel's surprise, it was Errisil.

“And of course, the tradition of multiple wives is actually more complicated than you might think. It is not undertaken wantonly in their culture, but is rather a pragmatic solution to looking after women widowed by wars. A man is considered honour bound to offer for the widow of his fallen comrade, but there are conditions: his existing wife must agree, and the widow is free to refuse, whereupon he is still duty-bound to offer her a small pension to ensure that she and her children are not left destitute. In fact, the tradition has rather fallen into abeyance in several of the principalities. More latterly, increasingly many men have chosen to bind themselves only to one woman, out of respect and love for her.”

“An admirably succinct summing up of a culturally complex practise, my lady. I had not realised you were also a scholar of the social niceties of other peoples.” Ivriniel's voice was filled with respect, but Lothíriel detected an undercurrent of slight surprise, and no small amount of curiosity. “How did you come to be so well versed?”

“Oh, just general conversation. One picks up little snippets here and there.” Errisil's voice was breezy, but Lothíriel could have sworn there was a slight air of evasiveness about the reply. She waited for her aunt's probing reply, but Errisil (presumably also sensing an imminent attack) pre-empted it by saying, “I think I should go and check on Princess Lothíriel – it does not do to let someone sleep too soundly after a bump to the head.”

Lothíriel heard the rustling of the canvas tent flap being drawn back, and then Errisil's head appeared through the gap.

“How are you feeling?”

“Much better, thank you. I have actually been awake for some time.” 

Errisil was joined by Princess Ivriniel, who laid a cool hand on Lothíriel's forehead.

“Well, no fever, and your eyes look bright enough. I think we had best get you back to your family's tent. I shall let your mother know what has happened. I suggest a quiet evening of relaxation – and that does not encompass studying problems in the encircling game or pursuing the knottier problems of the mathematical arts.”

Lothíriel affected a sulky moue, which made her aunt snort with laughter. “No need to try that sort of silly expression on me, my girl. I am not fooled for a minute. You have far too much in the way of brains to carry it off convincingly.”

Lothíriel cast her hand across her brow in a dramatic gesture, and proclaimed in a hollow voice, “Doomed, doomed, doomed to eternal spinsterhood, how will I ever marry if I am unable to conceal my intelligence.”

“I see that you are clearly recovered. I was going to suggest a litter to get you back to your own tent, but I rather think you can manage on your own two feet.”

Lothiriel saw Errisil's brows rise, and realised that she was perhaps guilty of talking to her aunt with a rather greater degree of familiarity than was perhaps customary with one's elders. On the other hand, she had always addressed her aunt thus; Princess Ivriniel valued plain speaking and rational argument above pandering to social position (unless of course such pandering won one some sort of advantage in negotiations). But it did strike Lothíriel that perhaps she might, on this occasion, have overstepped the mark and put her foot in it.

“I beg your pardon, Aunt, I did not mean to suggest for a moment that there was anything wrong in remaining unmarried...”

“As a state, I find it has a great deal to recommend it. And I'll have you know it was not a state I embraced for lack of offers. There were gentlemen who declared themselves quite taken with me when I was younger. Some of them even professed themselves quite taken with my brains. There are such men, you know – if you must marry, make sure you hold out for one like that.”

Errisil offered her arm to Lothíriel, who sat up, then swung her feet onto the floor. She stood up, and was relieved to find that her dizziness seemed to have passed completely. Smiling encouragingly, Errisil guided her out of the tent. As they emerged into the sunshine, Lothíriel noticed Erin standing, tall and graceful, beneath the tree which shaded Aunt Ivriniel's cluster of chairs. Ivriniel nodded to her.

“Please feel free to go, my dear – and please do give some thought to my proposition. It would be long-term employment, well paid, and, I like to think, interesting to boot. And a woman of your intelligence would be a very valuable addition to my household staff.” 

Erin dropped a courtesy, then turned and made her way across the turf, long strides taking her rapidly into the distance. Lothíriel let her aunt and Errisil accompany her back to the Dol Amroth pavilion. She arrived at the same time as Merilwen.

“Perfect,” said Ivriniel. “Someone to keep you company for the evening.” She went on to explain quickly to Princess Isteth what had happened earlier, stressing that she thought no real harm had come to Lothíriel. Having reassured Lothíriel's mother, she bade all of them a good evening and retired in the direction of her tent. Isteth settled Lothíriel in an armchair and got Imrahil's manservant to fetch a footstool. Thus established in comfort, Lothíriel spent a comfortable evening holding court; chattering cheerfully to Merilwen and to Errisil. Merilwen seemed a little surprised at Lothíriel's new friendship to start with, but as Errisil relaxed a bit in her company and began to talk more freely, Merilwen in return conversed in a very friendly manner.

Merilwen did bring one very exciting piece of news. At the end of the game of phêl (which the Rohirrim had won convincingly – in fact, it might better be described as a rout than a game), King Éomer had announced that the Rohirrim would host a ball the next night – and (here Merilwen descended into a giggling, fluttering mess of excitement) he had announced that Gondorian rules of court etiquette would be suspended in favour of Rohirric ones – so that one could dance as many times as one wished with a partner without having to marry him or her!

Errisil rolled her eyes at this. Lothíriel joined her in making a few sardonic comments, but (to her annoyance) beneath her insouciant air, she could not deny that she felt a certain fluttering of excitement.

After what turned out to be a remarkably enjoyable evening, Errisil retired (Imrahil's manservant having been deputed to escort her back to the Duke of Pinnath Gelin's encampment). Finally having a moment of privacy with her very dear friend, Merilwen divulged the main reason for her visit. Lothíriel was slightly irritated, but not entirely surprised, to find herself in possession of yet another heartfelt missive to the dashing lieutenant Aradon, begging him to attend the Rohirric ball the next night.

~o~O~o~

The instant she awoke the next morning, Lothíriel realised that she would be unable to rest until she had got rid of the wretched scrap of parchment. Even with her cavalier attitude to courting danger and cocking a snook at social proprieties, she was beginning to feel that her luck could not hold for much longer. However, to her relief, the note was easily delivered, and she made it across the open space between the soldiers' camp and the pavillions belonging to the nobility without incident.

The princess flitted along the narrow gap between the backs of the rows of tents, skipping over guy-lines as she did so. She must not be spotted on the way back to her father's pavilion. She managed to get away with a reasonable degree of rule-breaking, but to be seen returning from the common soldiers' encampment was an act she didn't think even she had the front to carry off.

_Curses!_ Lothíriel swore under her breath. There, coming along the edge of the meadow, beneath the brightly coloured pennants, was Bronaer's friend, Lord Mabglor, and his position gave him a commanding sight-line down the path she was traversing. She winced as she thought of their last encounter: the man had been so annoyingly sure of himself, so convinced that any woman would fall at his feet, that no matter what Lothíriel had said to him, he had acted as though a contract of marriage was already signed, sealed and delivered to his notary.

It was far too early in the day to face the prospect, even without factoring in the complications of explaining her presence in the narrow path behind the tents, a path normally only frequented by the servants. Hastily, Lothíriel looked around her and realised that she was actually far closer to her own tent than she had thought… Far closer, but not close enough. She saw Mabglor look around him with that infuriating arrogance, so sure of himself and his place in the world, and knew with a sinking feeling that within the space of a few heartbeats, he would spot her. Without thinking, she ducked inside the nearest tent, heaving a sigh of relief as she realised that her new surroundings were familiar – she had chosen to take refuge within the tent of her friend Merilwen and their family. But then to her horror she realised she had stepped from the frying pan into the fire. There were voices whispering to one another just the other side of the curtain which divided the living quarters where she stood from what she seemed to recall were the sleeping quarters shared by Merilwen and (since Bronaer's departure for the citadel) Siliveth. 

“My lord, you are most presumptuous...” That was Siliveth's voice – and the tone that of her finest, practised form of flirtation. But in contrast to the relatively harmless public flirtations the woman had been carrying on, this one was being conducted in private – and that suggested a degree of willingness to make good on the implicit promise that could not fail to compromise Siliveth utterly were she to be found out. Lothíriel clapped her hand over her mouth. Of all the dreadful situations to walk in on. It must be Siliveth's “Beren”. Things went from bad to worse – there followed the unmistakable sound of a kiss being exchanged. 

Then things went from bad to worse to disasterous… _Oh Valar!_ She would recognise that drawl anywhere! And it was definitely not Gondorian.

“Yeah… nah… 'Presumptuous!' That's a very long word for something I'm pretty sure you want as much as I do.”

Éothain's words drew forth an answering giggle, which died away into a sigh, which in turn became a moan of pleasure.

“Do that again...”

“You like that, do you?” The Rohir's voice became even deeper, rumbling softly. Lothíriel could feel her cheeks heating.

“Mmmm…” Then, after a moment's pause, “And where do you think your hands are going, my lord?”

“Wherever you'd like them to go.” That deep voice again, now infused with warm humour.

“Oh!” Siliveth's squeak lay suspended half way between surprise and pleasure. “Mmm, yes, there… Oh Elbereth… Yes, there as well… Oh Nienna's mercy, you know what you're doing, don't you? Oh!”

There was an answering male groan. “You're not doing so badly yourself, love.” Then, after another pause, “Blardy hell, why does everything in Gondor have to be so complicated? The lacing of this gown is fancier than anything I've ever come across.”

“It's meant to be undone by my maid!”

“Wasted on her,” Éothain's deep voice rumbled. Lothíriel looked around her, feeling increasingly panicky. She really could not stay here. Surely she could crawl under the opposite side from the one she had entered by… no, that would not do, that would be the front of the tent, she would emerge into what amounted to the thoroughfare leading from this tent back to her father's. The side, perhaps? Her muddled thoughts were thrown back into confusion at the sound of Siliveth's voice.

“Talking of laces, yours seem to be in an impenetrable knot… Ah, I have it – clearly fortune favours the brave.”

There was another male groan, this time of a degree of lust that was unmistakable even to someone as inexperienced as Lothíriel.

“Béma, I'm not the only one who's done this before… Faarkin' hell that feels good...”

Lothíriel could stand it no longer – she burrowed her way under the side of the canvas wall, throwing caution completely to the wind. Glancing quickly around her, she assured herself that no-one was watching, and, smoothing her hair down hastily with her hand, stepped out into the main thoroughfare as nonchalantly as she could. _Tulkas' rod – Siliveth had not so much compromised her honour as torn it into shreds and thrown it into the path of a raging mumak, to be trampled into the mud._ Then another thought struck her. _By Yavanna's sacred vessel, though, she certainly seemed to be having a good time._ She pulled her cloak around her, and it was only as she did so that she realised with a shock that the clasp – a jewelled swan given to her by her mother – was lost. Frowning with worry, she hurried home.

Unbeknown to her, her quick glance to check her surroundings hadn't been good enough. In the shade of an awning diagonally across from Siliveth's tent, Éomer had watched, perplexed, as she squirmed under the canvas. _Whose tent is that?_ he wondered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks as always to the ladies of the Garden of Ithilien for helpful suggestions and picking up mistakes! And thank you for the comments and kudos - they are all much appreciated.


	13. The rules in abeyance

Éomer woke early the next morning. As he brushed Firefoot – he'd discovered that starting the day with a bit of manual labour cleared his head wonderfully, king or not – he found his thoughts drifting to Lothíriel once more. As they seemed to increasingly often these days.

_What on earth had she been doing squirming out from under the canvas of that tent?_ He gave a chuckle. The good matrons of Gondor would no doubt have had a field day speculating and coming up with all sorts of damning theories about her behaviour. He, having watched his sister get into all sorts of scrapes as a teenager, was more inclined to put it down to some sort of teenage misadventure which was probably at heart completely innocent. But it was still intriguing. Everything about her was intriguing. And he wanted more time in her company.

He drew his hand across his brow, huffing in irritation at himself. He was turning into a fair imitation of a love sick teenager himself. _Strewth, had he really used the word 'love'?_ He gave his head a shake in disbelief. _The sooner he got back to the Riddermark and found a nice down to earth lass there, and stopped this stupid mooning around, the better._ He needed Hilde to box his ears and tell him which of the young lassies round Edoras would do him best. Then he realised to his horror that he'd wiped a streak of mud – at least he hoped it was mud – through his hair.

He patted Firefoot's withers, put the brush back in the basket which held the grooming kit, then headed off down to the river for a wash. Nothing like a dunk in cold water to get the mud out of his hair and the nonsense out of his head. Unfortunately, the dunking, in clearing his head, also brought back various details of the day to come which he'd forgotten about while engaged in the soothing task of grooming. Béma's arse! He'd forgotten all about the ball he'd offered to host. That was going to be a nightmare to organise.

Then a happy thought crossed his mind… Yes, it would be a nightmare to organise. But not his nightmare. Smiling, he went in search of Éothain.

 

~o~O~o~

_Strewth, what a day!_ Éothain was, to use one of his favourite expressions, _completely tuckered out._ Admittedly, part of it had been entirely his own fault. Well, maybe not entirely. Siliveth had played an equal role. Béma, that woman was energetic. And surprisingly athletic. And distinctly vocal. That bit of the day might have been tiring, but by the Wild Hunt, it had been fun.

No, it was the afternoon, running around like crazy, organising the dance. Éomer had said he wanted a knees up worthy of Edoras, back years ago when they were just kids really, newly joined their eoreds. Back when folk's biggest worry was whether the fiddler was so pissed he couldn't stay in tune. Before Théoden went all funny when Wormtongue muscled in on power. Before folk started worrying more about whether their loved ones were going to die on the end of an orc's pike. Ach, enough of getting maudlin. Éomer wanted the sort of dance where everyone got drunk and happy, and the sheilas giggled when you asked them to dance, and sometimes let you kiss them if their mams stopped watching long enough. Though (Éomer was letting this whole king thing get to him) “with a bit more polish”. Whatever that meant. 

Easier said than done in the middle of a wood in the middle of nowhere, with no sheilas around to make sure things ran smoothly. What the hell did Éothain know about organising dances? Or the food to go with it? Or music? He'd managed to sub-contract the music to one of the captains of one of the eoreds – he'd realised in the nick of the time that the man was more than a bit handy with a fife, and like as not, knew other musicians. They'd begged, borrowed and… appropriated (he thought that was the Gondorian term) musical instruments for the occasion. As for the food – eventually he'd decided to keep it simple. The roast boar after the weird game of thar rhevia had seemed to go down well, so he'd decided to repeat that. And then, luck favoured him – he came upon Aelfred and his bonny lass, and persuaded the girl to take over the bits of the organisation that needed a sheila's touch. She might be a tart, he thought to himself, but she was a nice lass, and an honest one, for all she was a tart. He just hoped Aelfred didn't end up with his heart broken. That was the trouble with that sort of thing – it started as a light hearted tumble, but then got out of hand if a man didn't watch himself. And it didn't do to get keen on the wrong sort of girl. Well, not exactly the wrong sort, just not the settling down and marrying sort.

In the end, they got everything sorted in time. They'd set up the clearing nicely, with more lanterns hung from trees and benches set round the edges. It was on one of these benches that Éothain now sat, watching as his king favoured Lothíriel with not a second, but a third dance. He gave his head a little shake. He knew Éomer had made a big speech about how this corner of the field was part of the Riddermark for the evening, and the customs of the Mark held sway, and how (within reason) Gondorian strict propriety was suspended. But he had a feeling that the Gondorians probably hadn't so much suspended their propriety as temporarily lifted it an inch or so off the ground, to be dropped back into place at any moment, should anyone look as though they might be in danger of catching an illicit glimpse of a well turned ankle.

He found himself sandwiched between two splendidly dressed matrons (at least, he supposed they believed themselves to be splendidly dressed: to his eye, they reminded him of nothing so much as some of the round, brightly coloured tents in the tent city which had grown up shortly after their arrival at Cormallen). One, in a vivid grass-green dress, was (if he remembered Amrothos' information correctly) the mother of the auburn haired beauty who had been pursuing Éomer for a second dance. He suspected she hoped (despite protestations to the contrary) that it would still prove suitably compromising. The other matron, equally resplendent in a primrose frock which clashed quite hideously with her companion's, decided to engage him in conversation.

“Lord Éothain, what an honour to make your acquaintance at last,” she simpered. “I am Lady Pirwen, Duchess of Lamedon, and this is my dear friend, Lady Vilwarin of Anfalas.”

“G'day. Nice to meet you,” said Éothain, wondering desperately how long he had to talk to them for before he could decently make good his escape.

“I saw your king dancing with my daughter earlier,” the lady of Anfalas said. “I thought they made such a charming couple.”

Éothain wasn't sure quite what to say to this, so confined himself to nodding politely (hoping that in doing so he hadn't inadvertently committed his king to marrying the young lady in question).

“Of course, I have a daughter too,” said Lady Pirwen. “She's really quite lovely, even allowing for a mother's prejudice, and very accomplished. Speaks several languages, and has already expressed an interest in learning Rohirric...”

Vilwarin interrupted her friend. “My daughter just loves riding, never happier than when she's out on her horse...”

Éothain gave another nod, then muttered something to the effect that riding was like breathing as far as an Eorling was considered, man or woman (or child). 

The conversation limped on in this vein for some time, each woman vying to establish her own daughter's eligibility. At the same time they kept a gimlet eye on the Princess of Dol Amroth. As time passed, Éothain grew increasingly desperate, searching his mind for the words which might enable him to escape. Eventually he settled on, “It's been nice talking to you, but if you'll excuse me. I've just seen Prince Imrahil and his wife. I promised them I'd talk to them about possible trade agreements.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realised that they were way too abrupt. Not only that, he had severely underestimated his opponents.

“Pshaw,” harrumphed Lady Vilwarin. “You cannot possibly discuss anything as banal as business at a delightful soiree like this one.”

“Besides which,” added Lady Pirwen, bowing her head conspiratorially, “If I might give a word to the wise: you want to watch out what you commit yourself to. There are many here who see your king as a potential husband for their daughters, and that includes the highest echelons of our society.”

Éothain looked her straight in the eye and kept an absolutely straight face. “Nah. No-one could be that crass.”

“I am afraid so, my lord. And not only that – some of the girls in question may not be entirely suitable as future royal consorts. Even some of those whose breeding seems, at least on paper, to be impeccable. You see,” she fanned herself as if to recover from the shock of even having to voice such opinions, “Although for the most part our society is quite a moral one, sometimes one gets overly indulgent fathers who pander to their daughters' every whim. And the girls in question go sadly awry. It sometimes happens even in the very best of families.” She cast a pointed glance at the dark haired princess twirling round the dance floor in King Éomer's hands. “One would hate to see your country accept a dowry, only to find you'd been paid in false coin.”

Éothain found himself growing quite angry. “Let me get this right. You're suggesting that Prince Imrahil, who fought by our side, who rescued the king's sister from the battlefield, has somehow produced a daughter who's a bit crook?”

“Oh, Valar's mercy, no.” Vilwarin shifted uncomfortably in her seat, mortified at having been challenged so directly. She had obviously been relying on dropping a few subtle drops of poison without having to commit to saying anything too direct that could get back to the Prince. Hastily, she tried to back track. “Other girls here maybe, but certainly not the princess.” Her companion, in contrast, seemed to eschew any attempt at subtlety. 

“After all,” Lady Pirwen chipped in, her tone arch and knowing, “I'm sure that the Prince is perfectly comfortable with her swimming half clad and playing cards in all male company. She has, after all, her brothers, paragons of male virtue, to chaperone her, so what could possibly go wrong?” With a little wave of her, she drew attention to the two young men in question. Her gesture first took in Erchirion, who appeared to be several sheets to the wind already and had (scandalously) smuggled the smaller of his two camp beauties into the ball, thereby contravening every rule of court etiquette which dictated that ladies of quality and birds of paradise were to be entertained separately. Then the delicate fretwork of her folded fan pointed at Amrothos, and suddenly, Éothain's guts felt like they had turned to molten lead. For there, in the shadow of a tree, stood his friend Amrothos, pressing a kiss to the inside of a lady's wrist. And the lady in question was none other than Siliveth.

 

~o~O~o~

Lothíriel was as quick a study at dancing as she was at the encircling game or caer ab minab. The Rohirric dances were new to her, but the steps came easily enough. And what dances they were – none of the elaborate protocol, facing and bowing and all the rest – of Gondorian stately court dances. No, these were lively and exuberant and altogether a much more enjoyable experience. 

So far, she had danced with Éomer, then Éothain, then the King (her own king, that was), Éomer again, then Arodon. The dance with Arodon had been a bit of a trial. His attention kept wandering from her (and more importantly, from the location of her feet) towards his lady love, standing on the edge of the dance floor. Lothíriel's poor toes had suffered quite dreadfully. Fortunately, she had too little in the way of amour propre for her self esteem to have suffered as well, though by the end of the dance she was beginning to feel quite bored, and was more than relieved when Éomer cut in to claim a third dance.

However, relief was certainly not the only thing she felt. She was suddenly assailed by that dizzying feeling she had had the day before at the game of phêl, only without the comforting explanation of a bump to the head. She felt Eomer's hand, large and warm, settle into the small of her back, and realised it was the deliciously scandalous dance which involved him placing his hands at her waist. Suddenly her mouth seemed to grow dry, and her pulse raced. She felt a desperate urge to speak but couldn't seem to frame any words. A woman like Siliveth would have uttered something arch along the lines of “A third dance? Surely not, Sire. Why, you shall set everyone's tongues wagging.” But Lothíriel was struck dumb.

Cautiously (for she remembered only too well the effect Éomer's features had had on her after the game of phêl) she looked up. As she'd feared, or perhaps hoped, in stark contrast to Aradon, Éomer was gazing down at her intently. She could feel herself blushing, and watched as his smile broadened into the grin she remembered from playing the encircling game with her. The corners of his eyes crinkled, and somehow his expression softened. There was a subtle difference from her feelings a day or so earlier; then she had been overwhelmed by a sudden flash of desire, but now she felt comforted and safe. Suddenly her feelings of awkwardness vanished, and she found herself smiling back, stepping in towards him as the musicians struck up the tune. 

That wasn't to say the flutterings of heat, that feeling of quicksilver in her veins, had gone. As he whirled her round the dance floor, she was grateful that the lively jig gave her an excuse for breathlessness. In truth, she wasn't sure whether it was the dancing or his company. Her whole body seemed to thrum with some new excitement; she felt herself drawn to him as a needle to a lodestone. Flickering in the back of her mind was the memory of the sighs and moans Siliveth had made the day before, which added to her confusion; at one and the same time, she felt those memories might soil what she felt here, but also that they were somehow key to explaining that strange glow in the pit of her stomach. Éomer held her tightly round the waist, but somehow not tightly enough – in fact, she was no longer sure that there was such a thing as tightly enough. She had this strange urge to melt against him. Instinctively, she knew that this urge was connected with whatever baser urges had driven Siliveth to toss her honour aside so cavalierly. Suddenly, she felt a wash of sympathy towards Siliveth, however foolish she might be.

But then she found herself lost once more in Éomer's eyes – those blue-grey eyes, intent on her. Was it her imagination? So many emotions seemed written within that gaze: a fondness, a kindness, a gentleness… and the mirror of whatever it was that sent those flames flickering inside her, and the hot pulsing of blood to warm her stomach. Whatever that feeling was that she had not yet named, was almost afraid to name, he felt it too. He too wanted to draw her closer and tighter. For a moment, she let her eyes close, wanting to lose herself in the sensations of touch and heat from his body, and as she did so, she heard him take a sharp breath. His grasp tightened round her, but far from feeling trapped, she simply returned the pressure, clasping her hands to his shoulders.

Abruptly, or so it seemed to her, the music stopped. Perhaps more slowly than etiquette dictated, Éomer loosened his grasp and stepped slightly away from her, his face now a study in regret. If it had been possible to do so without making a complete spectacle of herself, she realised she would have begged him for another dance, and she was sure he could see this in her face, for he reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, letting his fingers linger just for a heartbeat or two on her cheek. She could see him, eyes fixed on her lips. _Oh Valar. What if he kissed her, here on the dance floor, in front of everyone?_ For an instant it were as if she could feel his lips on hers. Then, just as suddenly, he looked away, his expression becoming guarded, then let out a slightly shaky breath. He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, and led her towards the side of the dance floor.

“I think I see your aunt looking at us. From the expression on her face, I think she feels it is time you returned to her side,” he said, in a low voice. Then he pulled himself together and gave Lothíriel a smile. “Thank you, Princess, for… dancing with me.”

 

~o~O~o~

Lothíriel gratefully accepted a glass of wine from her aunt. Chatting to Princess Ivriniel was a much needed distraction from her whirling emotions. She had been quite sure Éomer had been about to kiss her, then had clearly thought better of it. Why? All she could think was that he did not want to commit himself that far. No doubt someone (probably one of her interfering brothers) had explained the minutiae of Gondorian court etiquette, and he realised that, in the eyes of most young women, not to mention their mothers, a kiss would be tantamount to a contract of marriage. Damn and blast. If only he could have realised that she held those social niceties in about as high an esteem as… well, as her aunt did. (She had overheard her parents mentioning one or two youthful scrapes of Ivriniel's; though unwed, her aunt was, she gathered, not entirely inexperienced.)

She had so wanted to kiss him. She could remember the heat of his hand in the small of her back as they danced; how much better both of his hands on her back, drawing her close against him? And his lips – would they be soft? What would his beard have felt like against her face?

As for what else she might want, she did not want to contemplate that. She was, she kept telling herself, not a giddy girl whose only care was for marriage to establish her as yet another woman of standing in the court. Nor was she like Merilwen, waiting to cleave to her brave lieutenant and give up all independence as she became his help-meet. At the same time, was one kiss all she wanted? And if she had more kisses, where would that lead? How strongly would her heart get engaged?

And what if she were offered another sort of marriage? The sort her parents had? Her mother was much more than gentle help-meet, and certainly no court butterfly (except when diplomacy demanded). Her mother had always played an active role in the running of Dol Amroth, her father's deputy and second in command rather than simply a prop to his ego. But she knew next to nothing of Rohan. What was expected of a Queen there? Would an attempt to model herself on her mother's role in Dol Amroth be welcomed, or be seen as foreign interference by some sort of virago with ideas above her station? They had shield-maidens, surely a point in their favour. And Éomer seemed to value her brains as well as her face and figure. But she couldn't be sure whether women in Rohan were accorded any sort of political status. And she couldn't very well ask, without putting herself in the same category as the scheming maidens chasing after Éomer. 

“Lothíriel? Lothíriel?” Her aunt's voice cut through her meandering thought processes. “You really have not heard a word I've been saying for the last five minutes.”

“Sorry, Aunt. Just wool-gathering. I'm...” Lothíriel gave her aunt a wink, “Quite tuckered out.”

“You really are turning into quite the Rohir, aren't you?” Her aunt smiled, then gave one of her dangerously penetrating stares. “I thought at first that dreamy look on your face meant you had had your head quite turned by... all the dancing. But you've really had quite a frown on your face for the last minute or so. Does something trouble you?”

Lothíriel knew that look of old. Her aunt had adopted a concerned but slightly confused demeanour, but behind the gentle half-smile of well meaning sympathy, Lothi could see gimlet eyes regarding her acutely. Princess Ivriniel was now in the mood to conduct one of her interrogations, and few ever escaped from that without divulging information they really wanted to keep to themselves. She swallowed. The last thing she desired was to have to talk about her confusion. Never mind not wanting to reveal her innermost thoughts to another; she really did not feel as though she wanted to examine them too closely herself.

But rescue came from an unexpected, though almost as unwelcome, quarter. Over her aunt's shoulder, she caught sight of a scene unfolding in the shadows which made her blood run cold. She could only hope that the two of them were far enough out of the line of sight of most of the crowd that they were not able to be seen by most of the crowd. She was able to reply in all honesty to her aunt.

“Yes – I cannot for the life of me think what the commotion is about, but my youngest brother seems to be engaged in an unholy row with his good friend the Lord Éothain. And I fear if we cannot intervene, there will be a public scene!”


	14. Swans coming home to roost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Well, it's been a huge gap, so I guess I'd better do a quick "the story so far". Eomer and Lothiriel have been skirting round each other for quite some time, neither prepared to admit to being really rather interested in the other. Meanwhile, Amrothos and Eothain have struck up a firm friendship, each unaware of the fact that they are both dallying with the same (married) woman. We've just had another ball, at which Eomer has danced with Lothiriel twice, leaving her feeling rather delightfully fluttery. But the end of the evening has been marred by Lothiriel seeing Amrothos arguing with his friend Eothain..._

~o~O~o~

The public scene had been averted, in part because whatever the cause of the unholy row, by the time Ivriniel, closely followed by Lothiriel, reached the place where Amrothos and Éothain had been arguing, the two men had gone their separate ways. Angry words had clearly been exchanged, and there was no sign of any rapprochement having taken place, but much to Lothíriel's relief, they had stopped short of exchanging blows, and no-one else seemed to have noticed the set-to.

The row had however damped Lothíriel's spirits considerably, and she retired to bed soon after, her mood deflated. Despite her tiredness, or perhaps because of it, she found sleep elusive, and tossed and turned on the low bed for some time before finally drifting into a fitful simulacrum of rest. She woke early next morning in the grey half light before dawn and lay staring at the canopy above her head.

Damn 'Rothos and his blasted friend. Her wonderful evening of dancing with Éomer – then they had to spoil the mood. Still, Lothíriel was not one to give in to fits of the megrims, so she turned her attention to plotting a suitably humorous revenge on her brother. Perhaps she could turn Rustroviel loose in his tent. A dish best served cold – she would wait till next time he had been in his cups. Or perhaps (though this one might have been better carried out back when she was nine, rather than nineteen) she could put couch grass clippings inside all his shirts. Preferably just before an occasion when decorum demanded that Amrothos be on his best behaviour. It did occur to her to worry what could have caused such a fall-out between friends, but she was inclined to put it down to some sort of strange issue of male pride, the sort of thing she found more foolish than comprehensible.

She was just wondering whether a slow-worm in Amrothos' boots would do the trick when she heard a scrabbling sound by the skirt of the tent. Clutching the covers about her, she sat up and turned her head in the direction of the noise, only to see, of all people, Merilwen wriggle under the edge of the canvass. Her face was screwed up with emotion, her eyes and the tip of her nose red.

“Lothíriel, something just too dreadful has happened. Siliveth turns out to have been dallying with both your brother and Lord Éothain.”

“Ah, so that is what last night's unseemly performance was about. Silly boys. I do hope they can behave with more decorum in future.” Lothíriel snorted with irritation at the vagaries of the male sex, then got up and pulled a day-robe about her shoulders.

“No, it is far, far worse than you imagine. Now they are to fight a duel...”

Now Lothíriel was startled out of her world-weary complacency. “What! Where?”

“On the lower meadow, by the swimming reach.”

The princess's mouth dropped open in shock. For a moment she sat frozen, before realising that the circumstances called for immediate action. Rapidly she pulled her boots on, not even bothering with hose, grabbed her cloak and ducked out of the tent, setting off at a sprint, her skirts held high round her knees. Merilwen started to stumble after her.

~o~O~o~

Éomer had awoken with the first light of the sun on the canvas, despite the previous night's exertions. He sat at a camp table, drinking a cup of the dark Haradrim brew Imrahil had introduced him to, thumbing through the sheets of parchment with details of the trading agreements, and the advance shipments of grain promised by the Principality of Dol Amroth in exchange for future shipments of wool and horses when stocks returned to more sustainable levels. He took another gulp of his drink, reflecting that it was the only thing that stood between him and a return to deep slumber, induced by the excitement of trade policy.

He was just about to turn his attention to the thrilling prospect of barrels of salted fish when Edric burst through the canvas tent flaps, seemingly only realising at the last minute that he should perhaps have stood more upon ceremony. The boy awkwardly doffed his cap and tugged at his forelock, before he spoke in a breathless tone, the stress making his voice jump up and down in the way teenage boys seem fated to endure at the most inopportune of moments.

“Sire, come quickly. Lord Éothain is fighting with Prince Amrothos!”

“What the farkin' hell?” Éomer's first thought was to wonder how the hell two such firm friends could have come to blows. He leapt up from behind the table, scattering scrolls of parchment – as one with the seal of Dol Amroth fluttered to the floor he was hit by a second thought: this could cause a diplomatic crisis with repercussions which could starve his people. _Dammit, why hadn't he brought Elfhelm and left Éothain to fight off the threat from the north?_

“Where's this happening, lad?”

“Down by the long reach, on the water meadow,” Edric blurted out.

Grabbing his sword from the stand by the entrance, he charged out into the early morning sunshine, strapping the scabbard round his waist as he strode rapidly down hill. _Curse Éothain for the ocker bastard he was. And that Gondy bastard 'Rothos. He'd bang their farkin' heads together when he got hold of them._

His long legs carried him across the turf at a fair pace, Edric having to trot at his heels to keep up. As he cut through the brush hedge beyond the Rohirrim encampment, he glimpsed the two figures in the far distance, swords gleaming in the sun light. _Béma's balls, it was worse than he'd thought. They weren't having a punch-up, they'd drawn steel. Farkin' hell, they'd completely lost their senses._ He broke into a run.

Then he saw a sight which made his blood run cold. Cutting diagonally across his path, maybe four score paces ahead of him, was Lothíriel. She too was heading for the fight as fast as she could. He was seized with a sudden gut-clenching fear. He knew how headstrong she was – what on earth was she likely to do to try to stop the fight? And he knew the tunnel vision that came with fights, and how hard it was to break up two men intent on causing each other mortal injury. What was the risk of the two men, blood-lust roaring in their ears, not noticing her till it was too late?

“No, Lothíriel, stop.” In his panic, Éomer called the princess by her given name, without a thought for protocol. But to no avail. The princess ran headlong across the dew-damp grass, towards the two men in the distance.

Had the situation not been so dire, they would have cut fine figures. Clad in riding breeches, loose shirts and boots, they danced to and fro, swords glinting in the early morning sun. Tendrils of mist, not yet burned away by the heat of the day, added a romantic edge to the sight. But this was no practice bout. The blades flashed and parried in earnest. First one fighter would surge forward, then dance back out of range as the other offered his riposte. Éothain sliced and stabbed with his cavalry sabre. Amrothos was using his favoured duelling weapon: a rapier. The rapier appeared to give Amrothos a slight edge but not by much. As yet, neither man had drawn blood.

Éomer was a much faster runner than Lothíriel, but she had a considerable head start. By the time she reached the duellists, Éomer had made up all but half a dozen yards. He heard her shout, in a very clear voice.

“Stop acting like blithering idiots. I am going to step between your blades, and I would be most obliged if you would desist from this ridiculous display of male posturing and cease waving your swords around. I have no particular desire to be run through.”

“No!” yelled Éomer in desperation. He tried to get to her in time to grab her, but he was still too far away. To his horror, Lothíriel stepped coolly between the two fighters, just as she had threatened to.

Amrothos was in mid lunge. Éomer could not comprehend how on earth he managed to stop in time, but stop he did, pausing as if suspended in the air, then raising his blade in mock salute.

“Well, dear sister, you have done many foolish things in your time, but this is damn near the most foolish of all. I nearly ran you through just now. Now, if you wouldn't mind stepping aside, I should be grateful for the chance to run the correct person through instead.”

“Certainly not, you idiot. Look, the two of you were best of friends until a couple of days ago. What on earth has got into the pair of you?” said Lothíriel, in a tone of extreme exasperation.

“It is a matter of honour which does not concern you, sister. Please stand aside.” Amrothos was nothing if not stubborn. _Stubborn as a farkin' mule_ , Éomer thought to himself. The king decided the time had come to provide Lothíriel with some support.

“Éothain, put your bloody sabre down, you stupid bugger.”

“I can't.”

“You can't? You're forgetting I'm your bloody king!”

“Yeah, you're my king. But this bugger's been shagging my bird.” 

“How dare you impugn a lady's honour publicly, you scoundrel?” Amrothos interrupted angrily. “Quite to the contrary, it is you who has been taking liberties with the lady who has sworn her heart to me.”

The two men glared at one another over the top of Lothíriel's head. Lothíriel decided she had had quite enough of their ridiculous performance.

“ _The lady who has sworn her heart to you?_ What a ridiculous farrago. Is this lady your wife? Of course she is not, for she is already married to another. And as for you...” Lothíriel turned a positively glacial gaze on Éothain. “The last time I looked at the dictionary definition, birds had feathers. The lady in question (who, incidentally, is not your wife either) has no feathers, although I will conceded her behaviour has perhaps been somewhat fly.”

“Just a faaarkin' moment...” Éomer was now thoroughly confused and more than a bit shocked. “You mean both of these two have been carrying on with some other bloke's sheila?” Recollection surfaced, and Éomer added, “It's that Lady Siliveth, isn't it?” Then he threw back his head and started to laugh. “Strewth, she must have some staying power. And if she's that happy to shag around, she's hardly worth fighting a duel over.”

“Well, quite,” said Lothíriel. “Though in fairness to the lady in question, her husband's a philandering bastard, so arguably she is only paying him back in his own coin.” Éomer's eyebrows shot up at Lothíriel's choice words. He wouldn't have expected her to say anything so blunt. Though then he remembered her words down at the river. Lothíriel frowned at his look of surprise, before continuing, “If ever a man deserved to be cuckolded, it was Lord Bronaer. Though I don't think the lady initially intended to go as far as she has. I think she started the flirtation... flirtations simply to make him jealous, then had her head turned by the attention.”

“Bronaer?” Éomer's laugh turned into a guffaw. “Couldn't have happened to a nicer bloke.”

”So, now we've established that there is no honour to be defended here – for it seems to me that none of you have behaved honourably, neither the _lady_ nor the two _gentlemen_ – I suggest you sheathe your blades and shake hands.”

Amrothos and Éothain still glared at one another darkly.

“Oh, for heavens sakes, can you not declare it a draw? I refuse to believe either of you has fallen in love with the Lady Siliveth. Both of you have, I would imagine, had your moment of pleasure, and incidentally (for she is the sort of woman who tells tales out of school) so has she...” Lothíriel smirked. Éomer felt his jaw drop in surprise. He certainly wouldn't have imagined Lothíriel to know about such things. He felt a bubble of laughter well up inside him. Somehow, far from diminishing her in his eyes (as he presumed a Gondorian would react) he found himself filled with a sense of admiration at her forthright summing up of the situation. 

“In fact,” Lothíriel continued, “you may both congratulate yourselves on being considerably more accomplished in that department than Bronaer, who, despite his years of whoring around, seems to have been too selfish to learn how to bring pleasure to a woman.”

Éomer by this time had completely lost the ability to speak, tears coursing down his cheeks, belly aching from laughing. It took him several moments to get himself back under control. Eventually he spoke (albeit in a considerably less commanding tone than he might have been hoping for).

“Now you two, for the last time, sheathe your swords as the princess has very sensibly asked you to, and shake hands before I bang your heads together. And don't think,” Éomer almost growled at this point, drawing himself up to his full and very impressive height, “I couldn't do that if I needed to.”

Reluctantly, the two men returned their blades to their scabbards and (as briefly and reluctantly as possible) patted their hands together. Éothain sketched a half-ironic bow to his king and said “If you'll excuse me, sire...”, then marched off across the meadow, back stiff as a pikestaff.

“I beg your leave, your highness,” said Amrothos with slightly better grace (which, in fairness to Éothain, Éomer was prepared to interpret as signifying nothing more than that Amrothos, being a Gondy bastard, was possessed of reserves of hypocrisy Éothain did not have).

“Well, that was most entertaining,” said Lothíriel. She affected a light tone of voice and a wry smile, but Eomer was sure that he detected a slight tremor. She was more shaken by events than she was prepared to admit. He watched her tilt her chin upwards, carrying herself like a queen. _Blardy hell, that was a woman… she'd face down the black hosts and half the forces of Haradrim and not let them know she felt fear, if circumstances demanded it._

Her smile broadened slightly and she added, “Perhaps you would be so good as to accompany me back to my father's tent.”

With a smile, Éomer offered her his arm, and if she leant on him a little more than he was expecting, he certainly wasn't going to complain.

~o~O~o~

Lothíriel settled herself in the chair outside her family's pavilion, feeling that after the events of the morning that she had earned the rest. She took up the letter that stood waiting for her, recognising her cousin's hand. News from Minas Tirith. She started to read, and before too many sentences had passed, her mouth fell open and she gave a gasp of surprise.

 

_Dearest Lothi,_

_Well, I have got myself into a right pickle. It's good in some ways – marvellously good, good beyond my wildest imaginings, but could be disastrous in others. You see, I have finally managed to pay suit to the Lady Éowyn, and to my amazement, she has accepted me. The only problem is that I haven't yet asked her brother for permission. Yes, that's right, I asked her to marry me without asking him first. And worse than that, there is no covering up the fact that I've done things in the wrong order, for I kissed her, in public, on the city walls where everyone could see us. Kissed her on the lips._

To say that Lothíriel was stunned would have been an understatement. Faramir, suddenly turning into an accomplished womaniser! Well, maybe that wasn't quite true, as he clearly meant honestly by his love, but by Nienna's mercy! What a turn up for the books. Lothíriel giggled aloud as she tried to picture her bookish cousin, kissing a woman in public. Her attempt failed. No, try as she might, she could not picture Faramir as a romantic hero, wooing fair maid before the face of all opposition. Though it would appear that this was exactly what he had done.

_You have no doubt met her brother by now. I hear rumours that he has a very short temper. Is this true? Will he call me out? Or simply punch me in the style of a tavern brawl? What if he denies us his permission? I don't think I can live without her. She is the most wonderful woman in the whole world, and I have felt almost dizzy with joy since the moment she agreed to marry me._

Biting her lip, Lothíriel tried to imagine Éomer's reaction. She was convinced that he would stand up for his sister if circumstances demanded it, but she could not see him suffering jealousy for its own sake. The only question was how deeply he would feel Faramir had impugned his sister's honour – or indeed his own – by neglecting to ask for permission. But then she found herself imagining the scene as her cousin, dashing young swain of six and thirty, swept his warlike lady-love into his arms. Immediately thoughts of a vengeful Éomer were set to one side as she dissolved into giggles. It was indeed a picture of absurdity – her scholarly, thoughtful cousin wooing the wraithsbane. And – here her face lit with a smile – a picture of charming absurdity, for Faramir's love for his lady came through in every slightly untidily penned line of his letter.

She would obviously have to write to him by return to offer her felicitations. And tease him mercilessly. Perhaps she could sketch a picture of a larger-than-life Éomer riding to Minas Tirith, sword in hand, to put the fear of Mandos into Faramir. No, that would be too unkind. And unjust to Éomer, she felt sure. The teasing clearly merited more careful thought; it should indeed be merciless, for she had no doubt that he would offer the same were the circumstances reversed, but it should not be unkind. She smiled once more. She always thought best when she had something else to occupy some of her mind – it was as if the fanciful parts of her brain could wander freely while the more careful parts were busy. With this realisation, she reached for her box of polished pebbles and wooden board, and set them upon the table.

However, her relaxation was short lived; no sooner had she picked up her book of end-game problems than her father's herald announced a visitor, the very last visitor she would have expected to see, and certainly the last visitor she would actually have wanted to see.

“Lord Bronaer,” she said, desperately trying for an air of calm. “What an unexpected pleasure.” She had not expected him back from Minas Tirith for another day – and coming hard on the heels of Éothain and Amrothos's misadventure at dawn, this was not an encounter she wanted to face. How much, she wondered, did he know of his wife's carry on in his absence?

“The pleasure is all mine, my dear,” he said, with a positively wolfish smile. Lothíriel's mind whirled frantically as she tried to gain her bearings in the situation. Smile – probably meant Siliveth was off the hook. Wolfish smile – that meant that the man was up to something.

“How kind of you to call, and so early in the day as well. You can hardly have had a moment to recover from your journey. I'm afraid that, if it is business connected with your trip to Minas Tirith, my father is currently down at the soldiers' encampment, inspecting the Swan Knights. But I'm sure he will be happy to see you as soon as he is informed of your arrival – perhaps I could send a messenger to him and get him to meet you at your pavilion. After all, I'm sure you must want to see Lady Siliveth.” Lothíriel looked at him expectantly, thinking that she had played her hand well. Surely this was the most polite of dismissals.

“Oh, but you see, I'm far from sure I do wish to see my _lady_ wife.” The edge of sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable. “And I am very sure that she does not want to see me.”

Lothíriel swallowed hard. So Bronaer was up to snuff. And yet still in a good humour. Suddenly she felt terrifyingly out of her depth. There was some kind of deep game afoot to which she was not privy. Bronaer must have read her discomfiture, for his smile became, if that were possible, even more dangerous.

“No, I thought that before treating myself to the inevitable tearful scene with my fallen lady, I would take steps to make sure I had my future plans in place.” He stretched out a hand and dropped something small and glittering into her lap. “I thought you might be feeling upset that you had lost this charming trinket.”

Lothíriel looked down. It was her swan brooch – the one her mother had given her for her sixteenth birthday.

“You thought, did you not, that you had given Mabglor the slip the other day. But, alas for you, he saw you coming back from the soldier's encampment. As did I a few days earlier. Two witnesses to your dalliance with young Lieutenant Arodon…”

Lothíriel opened her mouth to protest, but Bronaer held up a hand to silence her. “Oh yes, I know that you are the mere go-between, and that the foolish young pup fancies himself as my brother-in-law… or perhaps that should be former brother-in-law, since I intend to disencumber myself of my wife 'ere he manages to marry her sister. But I don't think that detail will matter much to society at large. Nor more particularly to your barbarian king. When I make it known at large what you have been up to – leaving exactly the sort of gaps in the tale which, alas, I cannot bear witness to having not actually seen them at first hand, the sort of gaps others' imaginations will be only too hasty to fill – why, then I rather doubt you will still be seen as a suitable future queen, even one where the court, so rumour has it, is held in a thatched barn.”

Lothíriel felt her fists clench the silken fabric of her skirts. She tried to keep her face impassive. Bronaer obviously read her silence as weakness, for he continued in a tone of no little menace.

“That is, if you force me to play my hand. If, in contrast, you are sensible enough to fold yours and concede defeat, then I am sure some sort of arrangement can be reached. My initial thought was for Mabglor to marry you – he gets your dowry, I get repayment of his debts of honour, your honour… shall we say... becomes negotiable?” Bronaer took a step to Lothíriel's side. For a moment, she thought he was going to touch her, but he was much too subtle for that. He simply rested his hand on the back of her chair, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from it on the bare skin at the nape of her neck. The gesture made her gorge rise every bit as effectively as if he had actually run his fingers over her skin. “But who knows?” he continued, silkily, “I may find myself tragically divorced, the wronged and therefore innocent party, no stain to my name, free to remarry even a lady of the highest birth.”

Abruptly, with a force that took Lothiriel by surprise, hot anger flared up within her. She got to her feet, smoothing her silken skirts, and lifted her chin to face Bronaer.

“You know what they say: 'Publish and be damned'. We'll see who people believe – a princess or a cuckolded minor noble, a nobody clearly intent on trying to exact revenge on the family of the man – sorry, _one_ of the men – who made love to his erring wife.”

For a moment, she thought he was going to strike her. Then he spat angry words, “You will regret this, madam.” Face white with fury, he swept out of the tent, leaving her shaking with the aftermath of her own anger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the _huge_ gap since the last chapter was posted. Epically busy summer with major repairs on the house. It is impossible to write while crammed into a single room with a small child, with a missing flight of stairs...


	15. In which Arodon proves unexpectedly decisive.

Lothíriel felt sick with the shock of her encounter with Bronaer. _Bronaer… “faithful bridegroom”. Never was a man more mis-named. Excepting perhaps his haplessly indebted friend, Mabglor the “golden handed.”_ The youngest princess of Dol Amroth sank back into her chair and pressed her hand to her forehead, which seemed to be pounding in a most uncomfortable manner.

She needed someone to talk to. Not her mother. The to-ing and fro-ing between her family's tent and the soldiers' encampment was not something she had any intention of divulging to Princess Isteth. For a moment she considered confiding in Errisil. But again, no. Their friendship was too new, too tenuous. And she had no idea how Errisil would react to such an obvious breach of propriety. Not to mention the fact that even if Errisil were not shocked, she was so inexperienced as to be unlikely to have anything of substance to offer in the way of advice. No, she needed someone older and wiser… of course! Aunt Ivriniel. 

Lothíriel grabbed her cloak and hastened across the greensward towards her aunt's pavilion.

 

She found Ivriniel sitting in the shade of a large tree, entertaining no less than the king himself to morning tea and scones. Sadly, his presence put paid to Lothíriel's plan of unburdening herself on the Princess. Her aunt was in the process of reading aloud some dispatches from Minas Tirith. It seemed that Faramir had written to various people, not just to his favourite cousin. 

The king got to his feet and stood politely as Ivriniel's butler fetched an extra chair for Lothíriel. Once the two of them were both seated, Ivriniel looked at them both and smiled.

“I was just telling his highness that young Faramir has just reminded me of a most amusing piece of history – the occasion on which Baranhir, duke of Pinnath Gelin, laid siege to the fortified hill town of Ered Finnion in the Debatable lands. It was held by the southron king, Farath-Aroz, as chance would have it an ancestor of our esteemed captive, Crown Prince Alazar. Farath-Aroz was a skilled tactician with a large amount of common sense when it came to matters military. He realised the jig was up, but couldn't be seen to lose face.”

“I presume,” said Elessar, “That we are headed towards a situation which you feel may offer me some insight into how to deal with Prince Alazar.”

“Precisely,” said Ivriniel, with a smile. “As I said, Farath-Aroz was an excellent tactician. However, as good fortune would have it, Baranhir was equally shrewd and also a sane and merciful man. So somehow messages were exchanged, the result of which was that Farath-Aroz led his men in full armour through the gates to a magnificent last-stand. They got as far as a narrow defile, at which point Baranhir's men appeared, as if by chance, on the encompassing cliff-tops. Farath-Aroz was then able to say quite truthfully that the situation was hopeless and they were entirely outnumbered by an enemy with an unassailably advantageous position. He was then able to surrender in good faith without the loss of a single man… or any loss of face in front of his comrades.”

“Ah.” The king let out a long breath. “So you wish me to find the equivalent of a narrow defile, in which Alazar may display the outward show of heroism while acting to our advantage.”

“Quite. We need to find a way of allowing Alazar and his father to change sides without losing face.”

“As ever, Princess, I am indebted to both your wisdom and your excellent knowledge of Haradric history and customs. I shall go and mull over the matter. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a meeting with Prince Imrahil. Good day to you both.” The king rose and made his way back towards the royal pavilion.

Ivriniel watched his retreating back, then when she deemed him to be out of earshot, turned to look closely at her niece. Lothíriel had not seemed as diverted by this anecdote as she would have expected. In the normal course of things, pithy stories with entertaining twists were just the sort of thing to appeal to niece's keen sense of the ironic, but seemingly not today. 

“Lothíriel, my dear, you seem preoccupied. Is something the matter?”

In a garbled rush, Lothíriel blurted out the whole story of her encounter with Bronaer, realising as she did so just how angry at the man she was. Ivriniel listened with her fingers steepled together, a thoughtful frown on her brow.

“Well,” she said eventually, “The publish and be damned response was undoubtedly the right one. One cannot back down in the face of a bully. But he will undoubtedly publish, you can be certain of that. However, I do think your reading of the importance of your and his relative social standing is correct. Ultimately, his word will count for less than yours. Hang on to your pride, hold your head high and show you don't give a damn. The scandal will eventually blow over. They always do.”

Lothíriel gave her aunt a grateful look. But then a rather lowering thought struck her, and she said, ruefully, “My parents will worry that I am completely unmarriageable.”

“I think you underestimate them. They worry about you, yes, but would never force you into a marriage you did not want. Though I concede that your father does worry, I suspect, that you might follow in my footsteps.”

At this, Lothíriel brightened visibly. “That would be one way of waiting out the scandal – I could come to the Haradwaith with you!”

“That might be an indulgence too far, even for as devoted a father as Imrahil,” Ivriniel said, dryly. “And in any case, I doubt that the reality is as romantic as you think it is. However, in the short term, may I suggest you return to your parents' pavilion. You should, I think, apprise your mother of the situation. She should at least be forewarned of the coming storm. Furthermore, I have a great deal of confidence in Isteth's tactical nous – she may well have some interesting ideas as to how best to deal with Bronaer. Mind you, of course, she has two offspring involved in scandals. You seem to have forgotten the fact that your brother has been tupping Bronaer's wife!”

Lothíriel was so used to the euphemisms of polite society she was momentarily taken aback by her aunt's rather earthy farm-yard language. But then she burst into a peal of laughter.

“Of course – here I am getting into a lather over delivering some letters in broad daylight, while respectably attired in a form-concealing cloak; meanwhile it seems my brother has been spending his nights dallying naked with another man's wife.” Then her laughter died away. “Except that of course society attaches a harsher judgement to the former than to the latter, simply because I am a woman and he a man.” She sighed deeply.

~o~O~o~

Lothíriel made her return journey in a somewhat distracted state. Her aunt had not assuaged her worries as well as she'd hoped. However, she did feel slightly more sanguine about the whole business. That is, until she rounded a small covert to see Bronaer and King Éomer apparently having an animated discussion. She stopped dead, shrinking back into the undergrowth beneath the trees to watch. Oh, how she wished she could have got close enough to hear what they were saying. But there was no cover to make use of. She would have to make do with watching from a distance.

It might have been her fancy, but she felt almost as though she could read their words from their body language. Bronaer was ingratiating, Éomer initially suspicious. Bronaer sought to persuade, Éomer seemed sceptical. Bronaer shrugged as if to say that it was of little or no import to him whether Éomer believed him. Éomer half turned as if to walk away. And at this point, she saw Bronaer's lips move to utter a single word… wait. Then he fished in a pocket, and held out something small and sparkling. The blasted swan brooch. From where she stood, Lothíriel had a very clear view of Éomer's face. And he looked shocked.

Lothíriel felt as though someone had punched her in the stomach. She didn't know what she'd expected Éomer's reaction to be – but that he would immediately and unquestioningly believe Bronaer! Her mind whirled, construing the events and their implications with startling rapidity. Éomer's look of shock told her so many things in just an instant. That he had formed some feelings towards her. That those feelings had been replaced by repulsion. That, to her chagrin, she was hurt by this discovery. Hurt because she had felt so drawn to him. Hurt that his interest could be changed so utterly in a moment. Annoyed with herself for misreading him, for suddenly she realised that she had thought better of his judgement, that she had assumed he would be able to read Bronaer's character and dismiss his accusations. A foolish assumption, she now realised. And above all, she realised, she was angry with him – for having feet of clay, for thinking so little of her.

Cursing herself roundly under her breath in both Sindarin and in the common tongue, she turned back into the covert and made her way back to her tent by a longer but more private route.

~o~O~o~

It took Lothíriel quite some time to recover her composure. Fortunately her maid had appeared to dress her hair for the evening's dinner, and this had forced her to put on a brave face. She was damned if she was going to cry in front of anyone, or lower herself to railing against the male sex in general, the way some of Merilwen and Siliveth's friends did in this sort of situation. That was better: anger at the thought she might in any way have any thing in common with those vapid society beauties helped her to pull herself together. But it turned out to be a longer battle than she had at first anticipated, for the initial feelings of hurt would keep surfacing in the most annoying way.

Hair piled into an elaborate but seemingly artless construction, she nibbled at a piece of bread. Since seeing Éomer and Bronaer together, she found (to her intense annoyance) that she had rather lost her appetite. _Damn the man to Angband and back, why had he got under her skin so?_ She could have kicked herself for her weakness. Tall and handsome, personable, able to beat her at go and graceful on the dance floor, and now she was acting like an idiot chit in the schoolroom. And somehow, despite knowing this, she still smarted from the recollection of his shocked face, because his opinion of her _mattered_. She curled her fingers into a fist, digging her nails into her palm. _Damn him indeed, and damn herself for being a stupid fool._

This annoying and fruitless train of thought was interrupted by the footman lifting the entrance to the tent. “Your highness.” The man bowed, and proffered a sealed piece of parchment. Lothíriel instantly recognised Merilwen's somewhat schoolgirl-ish rounded hand.

Nodding her thanks, she broke the seal and began to read.

_Dearest Lothi,  
I have such exciting news to import, and a most enormous favour to ask you. After much heart-searching, for we did not wish to do things this way, Arodon and I have decided our only hope of lasting happiness together is to elope._

Lothíriel's jaw dropped open. Eyes wide with surprise, she continued to read. 

_As you read this, we are already on our way to Dol Amroth, to be married “beneath the anchor”, as the saying has it. I have never been more grateful to your principality for having such liberal laws – I simply do not think I could have borne the wait until I was five and twenty years of age, not to mention the fact that father was putting me under great pressure to consider an advantageous match._

Lothíriel paused for a moment, gazing at the patch of green grass visible through the opening of the tent, deep in thought. A smile slowly crept across her face, amusement at her friend and friend's swain's antics finally ousting her megrims. Good for Arodon! At last, the man had shown himself capable of action, rather than mooning about like a love-sick spaniel. 

_And now for the favour. I am not the fastest rider, so we need to get a good head start before my father realises the truth. I have left a note for mama saying that I am staying with you for a few days, so that we can ride to see the famed Falls of Ithilien, and the hot springs there, and that your brother will chaperone us. (Mama will like that – I think she has always hoped that either Prince Erchirion or Prince Amrothos might form a tendre for me. Though of course, not being in the first circles of fashion, I doubt either of them would ever have noticed me, even if I had wanted them to, which I most assuredly did not, already having the love of my dear Arodon. And in any case, these days perhaps Mama might not be so keen on Amrothos having any further dealings with her daughters, what with all those dreadfully scandalous rumours flying around.) But if you could find a way to play along to buy us a day, or even better, two days, that would be most wonderful._

Lothíriel gave a chuckle, black mood now completely ousted. She was taken both by the sheer hare-brained nature of Merilwen's latest madcap scheme, and by the description of Amrothos' misadventures as “scandalous rumours”: surely Merilwen had to know that they were really considerably more than rumours. But then she hit upon the next part of the letter, and the laughter died on her lips.

_We have come up with a capital plan. We cannot risk going via Minas Tirith. That is what father will expect us to do, and there is no chance that we would not be overtaken on the road by fast horsemen in pursuit. Instead we plan to ride down this bank of Anduin towards Far Pelargir, and there procure a small boat to sail along the coast. I am so excited. It is so brave of Arodon – and so bold! He has not sailed before, but is sure that a modest vessel can't be that hard to handle. Normally I am terrified in boats – as you know, water has always been a bit of a fear of mine. But with my own dear Arodon by my side, I could face dragons and wargs – so I know I have nothing to fear._

Nothing to fear! Lothíriel sat staring at the words, willing them to fade into the paper and disappear. Surely the two of them could not be serious. Arodon must intend to charter a boat, with the owner to provide a crew. But Arodon was penniless: Lothíriel was forced, however reluctantly, to accept that Merilwen's words meant exactly what they said. The daft pair intended to buy a tiny sailing boat and sail it – with no experience, and with Merilwen scared of water – all the way to Dol Amroth, a hundred and fifty leagues away along the coast. They were mad, utterly and completely mad. 

Lothíriel leapt to her feet. She flew round the tent like a small, determined whirlwind, first shedding her morning gown in favour of breeches and a shirt, then grabbing a saddle bag and hastily stuffing the remains of the breakfast bread and cheese into it, along with a bag of dried fruit and several apples. She seized her cousin's cast off cloak, warmer by far than her various dainty lady's cloaks, and slung her bow over her shoulder before heading out of the tent. She set off at a run for the pickets where the horses were tethered. _Hmm, that wretched lady's palfrey of mine will be no good in for the job in hand._ Temporarily distracted by that thought, she rounded a corner at full tilt and collided with someone, knocking them flying. The person picked herself off the floor, and dusted herself down. 

“Your pardon, Lady Siliveth,” she said, her face impassive. _Valar, the last person I want to see in my present mood_. She looked down to see Siliveth, her eyes red and her whole demeanour agitated in the extreme. 

“Princess, I have come to beg for your help...” 

Lothíriel cut her off, allowing her irritation to show. “I'm afraid I have urgent business to attend to.” And in a sudden flash of anger, driven as much by fear for her friend as by anything else, Lothíriel found herself uncharacteristically lashing out at Siliveth, not out of any particular dislike for the woman, but more because she was the nearest target to hand. “And in any case, I fail to see what help I can offer you. I rather fear you have destroyed your reputation beyond any possible help from any quarter,” she said coldly. 

“No doubt I deserve that, though I would have hoped you of all people might have been less judgemental.” At this, Lothíriel could barely contain her anger, but Siliveth's next words brought her up short. “But it is not for me that I ask for help – it is for that idiot sister of mine.” 

“Merilwen?” With a sinking feeling, Lothíriel realised she knew what was coming next. 

“She has left me a note… She has eloped with Lieutenant Arodon.” 

“I know – she left me a similar note.” 

Siliveth wrung her hands together, twisting the fabric of her skirt. “She said she's sailing to Dol Amroth… Lothi, she cannot swim… Arodon has no more idea how to handle a boat than I do...” 

“Which is precisely why I'm going after them to try to stop them before they get too far – or at least I would be if you hadn't held me up.” Lothíriel paused, then inspiration came to her. “Go to my Aunt Ivriniel and tell her what has happened, and say that I have gone in pursuit of them. She will know what to do, and how best to manage the situation so no scandal ensues.” 

“Thank you,” Siliveth whispered, but found her words were delivered to Lothíriel's rapidly retreating back. The princess had continued her headlong dash down the hill. 

Lothíriel skidded to a halt by the improvised fence round the horses' paddocks. There was her palfrey. And there, grazing next to it, coat black and glossy, muscles rippling beneath its skin, was her brother's destrier. Inspiration struck. Lothíriel hurried to the tent in which the tack was stored, and quickly found her brother's saddle and bridle. Clicking her tongue and holding out one of the apples she rapidly lured both horses to her. Her own looked quite offended when the larger, more forthright black pushed her out of the way and claimed his apple allowing her owner to slip a bridle over the destrier's head. 

It took a few minutes to get the horse tacked up. An elbow to the guts was rewarded with a huff of exhaled air from the stallion, and Lothíriel was able to tighten the girths to her satisfaction, then she swung herself into the saddle and urged the horse into a canter. As she headed towards the road south, Amrothos' groom appeared from behind one of the hay stooks. 

“Your highness, where are you going?” he called anxiously. 

“Amrothos is a bit busy, said I could exercise Nightswan for him...” Lothíriel called over her shoulder. And with another few strides, she and the horse disappeared into the forest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story of Farath Aroz and Baranhir is based on Roger's siege of Enna in 1087, which ended as described, by mutual (if covert) agreement, and without bloodshed (see John Julius Norwich's Sicily: A short history from the Greeks to the Cosa Nostra).


	16. A Masterclass in Pugilism

In retrospect, it was rather a shame that Lothíriel's vantage point in the copse was not close enough to hear the conversation. It was also a shame she had not stayed longer to see what happened next. And perhaps the worst thing of all was that she put such an overly elaborate interpretation onto one simple look of shocked surprise.

Éomer had been walking down to the paddock when Bronaer had appeared at his side. One might almost go so far as to say that Bronaer had accosted him. Éomer uttered a brusque “G'day”, hoping the man would continue with whatever his task for the day was. However, to his discomfiture, it seemed that Bronaer's task for the day was accosting Éomer.

“Your majesty,” said Bronaer, sketching a bow of such impeccable elegance that it made Éomer curiously uncomfortable. In fact, the bow somehow had quite the obverse effect to that one might have imagined, establishing a social pecking order in which Bronaer was the cultured sophisticate, and Éomer a mere country bumpkin. The King felt his instinctive dislike for the man grow. His awkwardness, on the other hand, was mercifully short-lived; he remembered (with an inward glow of amusement) that Bronaer's wife had been making hay in his absence with not one but two men.

“Lord Bronaer,” he replied, somewhat shortly, with the tiniest nod of his head. Bronaer did not seem capable of taking the hint.

“I gather you have had several fruitful diplomatic encounters with Prince Imrahil and King Elessar while business called me to Minas Tirith.”

Éomer looked at him impassively. He had heard from various sources that Bronaer's business had in fact been a lady renowned for her enthusiasm for the attentions of, and indeed the gold coin of, the opposite sex. However, the Gondorian clearly felt the need to pretend that his visit had been above board. The silence stretched out. Bronaer seemed to be waiting for some sort of response. Eventually, not receiving one, he returned to the topic of Éomer's dealings with Lothíriel's father.

“Of course, from what I gather, it's not just trade arrangements you want to discuss with Imrahil. Or at least, not just trade in goods. But a word from the wise, I'd tread carefully if I were you.”

Éomer's eyes narrowed. _What the hell was Bronaer up to now?_ The king searched around for appropriate words. A sudden mental image rose up in his mind, of Ivriniel seated in her camp chair, tea service on a table next to her, comfortably shaded beneath a spreading tree. How would Ivriniel handle this situation?

“I don't think I catch your drift, but rest easy – I'm always careful.” Éomer almost laughed at himself for uttering such an obvious falsehood. 

“Careful enough to avoid becoming ensnared with a woman of loose virtue?” Bronaer's face bore an offensive smile.

“Woman of loose virtue? My favourite kind,” Eomer replied, trying to keep his voice light as he affected a carefree attitude. But beneath his beard, his jaw was clenched with annoyance.

“For a dalliance, yes. But I fear you are on the brink of being ensnared into marriage by such a woman.”

Éomer looked at Bronaer in disbelief. “Are we talking about me or you here?” he snapped. Fearing that he was on the brink of losing his temper, he half turned to walk away. 

A dark look of fury briefly flitted across Bronaer's face, but then the Gondorian collected himself. He reached out and placed a hand on the king's arm.

“Wait!”

With his other hand Bronaer reached into his pocket and produced a beautifully jewelled brooch in the shape of a swan.

“A pretty trinket – and unique to the house of Dol Amroth. You see, your Princess has morals every bit as wanting as her brother. He has, as you seem already to know, been cavorting with my soon-to-be former wife. Meanwhile, his sister has been cavorting with a junior officer – she dropped this on the way back from an assignation with him. Do you really want to form a trade agreement where the price to be exacted is the purchase of soiled goods?”

Éomer was stunned. His mind headed off in almost as many tight epicycles as Lothíriel's did (she happened to be looking across from the shelter of the coppice at just this moment). _Had the princess really been engaged in some sort of romantic assignation? Why the hell was Bronaer insinuating that he was as good as pledged to her? Did he want to be? Hell's bells, did he want to be, and she was running off with a junior officer?_ His thoughts spiralled inwards until eventually a glance at Bronaer's smugly triumphant expression steadied them. _Forget Lothíriel for a moment, what in the name of buggery was that bastard up to? What did he stand to gain from this?_ Éomer took a deep breath and spoke, in as casual a tone as he could manage.

“You're getting ahead of yourself. I'm not looking for a wife. And there's nothing to suggest the princess would be interested if I was. So, she dropped a brooch. Hardly crime of the century. And you'd have us believe it's because she's dangling after some bloke. Why should I believe that? Looks to me like you're just pissed off at your own wife and wanting to spread some of the misery round.”

Éomer saw that his words seemed to have hit a nerve. Bronaer's eyes narrowed. The man had obviously hoped to provoke him, and was furious at the initial setback.

But Bronaer had an ace up his sleeve.

“Of course, I didn't find the brooch myself. My good friend, Lord Mabglor, found it. Outside the tent where the princess had been dallying. The tent which you saw her crawling out from...”

“So you've had your friends spying on the princess and on me...” Éomer said through gritted teeth. 

Bronaer picked up on the fact that Éomer's self control was now paper-thin, and continued to goad. “You think yourself more important than you are, Sire. Mabglor was not following you: he was hoping to find the princess to press his suit with her – a suit he has now thought better of, I believe. Personally, now he's out of the picture, I might have a go myself. Not for marriage, of course. But now she's proved herself to be a woman of easy virtue... Chances are she's as open to all comers as my erstwhile spouse.”

Éomer had prided himself, during his time in Cormallen, on how well he had kept his temper. That pride now turned out to be hubris, as a red mist descended before his eyes. With a growl from somewhere deep in his chest, he clenched his fist and swung his arm. The right jab connected with Bronaer's chin with a satisfying crunch. The Gondorian crumpled to the ground, knees folding, body hitting the turf with a dull thud.

“Splendidly done,” came a voice from somewhere behind his back. “I do like to watch a skilled display of the pugilistic arts.”

Éomer turned to see a tall, delicate-featured young man, dressed richly even by Gondorian standards, in pale blue silks and darker blue velvets. His hair was elegantly arrayed, bordering (at least, so Éomer thought) on the foppish, and from his person wafted a faint note of perfume. The young man swept a rather elegant bow.

“Úron, son of Tondir, at your service, Sire. I am the Lord Steward of Gondor's Aide de Camp. Her highness Princess Ivriniel asked me, at the end of my briefing of King Elessar and Prince Imrahil, whether I would mind passing on a message to you. She asked whether you would care to join her for afternoon tea later. She promises an absence of cucumber sandwiches. And I am also in the happy position to be able to inform your majesty that your sister was in good health and spirits when I left Minas Tirith the day before yesterday.” The young man gave a merry smile, then turned his head to look disdainfully at the prone figure on the ground.

Bronaer's butler was engaged in reviving him with a splash of water to the face. As Bronaer came to, he realised that the end of the scene had been witness not only by Lord Úron, but by quite a crowd, none of whom showed signs of retiring from the site of his humiliation. With so many witnesses, there was not much Bronaer could do. Had Éomer been a mere nobleman, he could have called him out. But kings, even kings of rag-tag barbarian countries in the cold north, were beyond his touch. Rather bruised, he allowed himself to be led away, muttering vile imprecations on Éomer's character and threats of the direst revenge as he went.

Úron turned back to Éomer. 

“Perhaps I could interest you in a spot of luncheon. After all, you do appear to have worked up an appetite.”

 

~o~O~o~

As they made their way towards the Gondorian officers' encampment, Éomer noticed that Úron walked with a pronounced limp.

“Took a bit of a cut to the old leg at the Black Gates. Nothing to write home about, but a dashed nuisance,” the young man explained.

Éomer raised an eyebrow. If he didn't miss his guess, there was a lot more to the man than met the eye. He'd come across this blasé attitude towards wounds before. Usually in men who had gained their injuries from some feat of immense bravery. Bravery about which they were, to their credit, very circumspect. Úron continued to chatter cheerfully.

“Anyway, I thought we'd try out the commissariat in the diplomatic pavilion, what?” He ushered the way into a large tent, in which were set a number of long tables. Éomer cast an eye over the table at the end which played the role of an impromptu buttery servery. Mercifully, the grub looked all right. He helped himself to a mug of ale, a roast pheasant and a loaf of bread still warm from the oven. 

The pheasant turned out to be splendid; skin roasted to a golden crisp, meat still moist, and seasoned with herbs. The company, to Éomer's relief, turned out to be almost as good. Once he had got used to the young man's somewhat flamboyant air, Éomer found Úron to be good company. As lunch progressed, they fell to talking about battle. It turned out that Úron had been at Morannon.

“Bit of a tussle, what? Had our backs to the wall for most of it. Mind you, I suppose most of us knew we weren't meant to make it. Personally, at the time I thought we were just trying to put off the inevitable,” the Gondorian said. He affected an off-hand tone of voice, but the bleak look in his eyes somewhat at odds with his air. Once more Eomer felt a jolt of recognition; he had seen that distant stare in all too many men pushed almost beyond their endurance. However, he sensed that Uron had a core of steel beneath the pomaded curls and lace at his cuffs.

Éomer nodded. “I thought we were done for… we would have been done for if it had just been us against the hosts of Mordor. Thank Béma for the halflings. But still. Too many good men fell.”

“Aye. Too many. My elder brother on the Pelennor. And my closest friend at Morannon.” Úron raised a tankard. “To absent comrades.”

Éomer raised his tankard and knocked it against Úron's. “Absent comrades.”

Úron nodded. “My condolences on the death of your uncle. I gather he brought you up.”

“As a father,” Éomer replied. “My cousin died a few months earlier, slain by the White Wizard's Uruk Hai.” Without thinking, he added, “I never expected to be king.”

Úron gave him a sharp glance, shot through with a certain shrewdness, and more than a small amount of understanding. “Obviously not nearly such a serious business, but I never expected to be handed my father's title. All this responsibility. There was me thinking I could swan through life making a career for myself as the reprobate younger brother. Now I have a whole estate of people who need feeding. Not as bad as a whole country, obviously, but still… it sobers a chap.” 

“Yeah, it does that,” Éomer agreed.

“Worst of all, I might have to get a wife.”

“I know the feeling,” Éomer said with a laugh. “My advisers won't shut up about it.” Then he caught the look on Úron's face, only fleeting and remarkably quickly schooled into bland impassiveness, and realised he'd put his foot right in it. The penny suddenly dropped; Uron had much more reason than he to be reluctant to take a wife. Then he suddenly recalled mention of the friend who fell before the Black Gates.

With a shock of recognition, he realised the sadness in Úron's eyes was the mirror of a sadness he'd seen before, many years ago: his cousin Théodred on being told of the death of his wife. He had never given much thought to “the way of the warrior” before, even though he knew some of his friends felt uncomfortable around such men. As he raised his tankard to his lips, Éomer realised with a feeling of warmth and fellowship that he simply didn't give a fark. Here was a brave man, who had fought with courage, and at considerable cost to himself, and had seen his shield-brother die beside him.

Éomer did the only thing he could thing of; raised his tankard again and knocked it against Úron's. “We'll muddle through somehow.”

For a few moments they drank in silence. Then Úron spoke again, his voice artificially bright.

“Your sister is well. I have been privileged to get to know the Lady Éowyn these last few days. She has graciously undertaken to help the Steward with some of the work attendant on getting the White City in order once more. She has offered invaluable help with the accounts and ledgers.”

_Now this was news,_ thought Éomer. “Helping with the organisational work? The very stuff she rode to war to escape? Now there's a turn up for the books.”

Úron nodded. “The Lord Faramir is an interesting fellow. Very bright, a brave soldier, politically shrewd, merciful in judgement. But when it comes to figures… well, he is may be gifted at logic and metaphysics and geometrical proof, but he cannot add a column of figures twice and get the same answer. He is immeasurably relieved to have your sister's aid.” There was a twinkle in Úron's eye as he delivered this information which Éomer couldn't quite place, but he felt slightly unsettled by. However, it seemed some sort of response was called for.

“That'll be Hilde's doing… Lady Hilde, Marshal Elfhelm's wife. She runs the garrison for Elfhelm. Back when we were kids, she insisted on teaching Éowyn to keep ledgers and payrolls properly. Éowyn kicked against the traces a bit – anything that smacks of being “woman's work” is like a red rag to a bull to her… But Hilde's a tough lady to stand in the way of. Éowyn used to try to hide in the stables, but Hilde always found her and made her do her lessons.” 

Úron gave a ready laugh at this. “I find it hard to imagine the Lady Wraithsbane, as the inhabitants of Minas Tirith have named her, as a reluctant schoolgirl playing truant from her lessons.”

Éomer was just in the process of trying to frame a question as to exactly what sort of friendship Éowyn had formed with this Faramir bloke, when they were interrupted by the arrival of Éothain. There was no way he was going to probe for details of what Éowyn was up to in front of his Marshal. Instead, the conversation turned to more general matters of soldiering, until it was time to join Princess Ivriniel for afternoon tea. Éomer followed Úron across the meadow, praying to Béma that the young man was right and there would be no more of those faarkin' cucumber sandwiches.

 

~o~O~o~

 

So it was that Éomer found himself seated once more in a folding chair beneath the spreading chestnut tree, in the company of the princess. Lord Úron, having delivered the king, bowed with an easy grace, and took his leave of them. To Éomer's surprise, the tray containing its now-familiar silver tea service (with a slice of lemon for Éomer to complement the princess's jug of milk) was set in place by Erin. 

“Thank you, my dear,” Ivriniel said, beaming roundly at her new lady-in-waiting. She turned to the king. “Now, news travels faster than a stooping hawk around this place. However, although I know the events, I do not know the frame of mind which occasioned them. I should, therefore, consider myself honoured if you would care to share with me the reasons behind your planting Bronaer such a magnificent facer.”

Éomer quickly sketched the conversation of the previous ten minutes, trying as best he could to play down the worst of Bronaer's accusations against Lothíriel. As he did so, Ivriniel's expression remained imperturbably impassive. It occurred to Éomer that of course toning things down would not work. Ivriniel could read between the lines of any conversation, even one with the shrewdest of diplomats well practised in the art of being economical with the truth. _Never mind someone,_ he inwardly chided himself, _who was more than a bit ocker if you were being blunt about it._ When he had finished, Ivriniel gave her summing up.

“As you may have guessed, I had already heard part of the story from my niece. I must say you have handled things admirably. Although there is of course no truth whatsoever in Bronaer's insinuations, sadly, given how fond the Gondorian court is of gossip and the outward appearance of propriety, we must take steps to scotch the rumours nonetheless. I think this needs to be done in as grand a manner as we can contrive.” She thought for a moment. “Perhaps King Elessar could be persuaded to have his bride-to-be take on Lothíriel as one of her bridesmaids. That level of patronage would surely put Lothíriel's status beyond question.”

Éomer couldn't help himself: he interrupted the princess. “But why the hell does it matter? Maybe she flirted with an officer, maybe she didn't. Who the hell in their right minds would care. It's what youngsters do – flirt with each other.” He gave a bit of a grin. “Sometimes more than that.”

Ivriniel sighed. “Well, quite. But this is Gondor. _And when in Numenor, one must do as the Numenoreans do._ ” She paused, then shot him a very penetrating look. “So you don't mind the idea of her flirting with this young officer.”

Suddenly the half-finished train of thought from his conversation resurfaced, and hit him like a punch in the guts. _Do I care? Should I care? What in the name of fark would I do if it turned out I did care?_ He tried to come up with a reply, uncomfortably aware that his mouth seemed to be flapping soundlessly like a newly landed fish. Ivriniel pounced on his discomfiture.

“Ah, so, perhaps you horse lords are not so different from we Gondorians in how much latitude you allow young ladies in their behaviour?” There was a certain archness, in fact perhaps even a slightly accusatory note, to Ivriniel's tone. However Éomer didn't entirely register it, trying as he was to marshal his thoughts. Without really understanding what he was saying, he blurted out a hasty disclaimer.

“No, I wouldn't mind if she _had_ flirted with him… it's that she maybe is flirting with him now...”

Ivriniel did not say anything. She didn't need to. Éomer's own inner voice supplied the verdict. _Farkin' hell, you're jealous, you stupid sod._

Resigned to his fate, the king waited for the princess to deliver what he guessed would be a crushing coup de grace. But before she could speak, they were interrupted – by the most unexpected of visitors. Siliveth, breathless from running (surely for the first time since she was seven or eight years old), eyes red with tears, face blotchy, burst in on the scene.

“It's… it's… it's...” she gasped for breath. “My sister. And Aradon. And Lothíriel. They are all gone. They will surely drown...” 

“Slow down, my lady, and tell your tale from the beginning,” Ivriniel commanded.

Siliveth didn't seem to hear her, but continued to stand, twisting her silken skirts between her fingers. “She has run off with Lieutenant Aradon. And it will all end in the most fearful scandal. And… on top of everything. Oh, my poor mother. Her palpitations...”

“My kind regards to your mother, but it would help if you could find the necessary presence of mind to explain who has run off with this young man. Lothíriel, or your sister? And what drowning has to do with it.”

Finally Ivriniel's words seemed to penetrate Siliveth's head. “My sister. They have… Eloped! Lothíriel told me to come and tell you, Princess. She has gone off in pursuit of them, to try to cut them off before they reach the harbour. She says they will surely capsize and sink for they know nothing of sailing.”

“So, am I to collect that Aradon and Merilwen have run off with the intention of sailing somewhere – presumably Dol Amroth to be _married under the anchor?_ And Lothíriel has gone in pursuit of them.”

Éomer was not sure he felt any less confused. _What the fark did 'married under the anchor' mean?_ But Siliveth continued to blurt out her thoughts, in no particular order.

“Yes, for they cannot swim...” Siliveth's voice came out in gulps and snuffles. Éomer's brows knitted together. Was this some sort of aquatic marriage ceremony? Fortunately, the princess was more engaged with eliciting the practical details of the situation.

“Which harbour?” she demanded.

“I don't know,” Siliveth sobbed. “Somewhere between Emyn Arnen and the settlement opposite Pelargir… I don't know.”

“That's a lot of river bank to cover,” said Ivriniel ruefully. She turned to Éomer. “How are your tracking skills?”

“Bushcraft?” Éomer grinned. “Now you're talking my language.” He looked at Siliveth. “How much of a head-start has Lothíriel got?”

“I ran straight here. She's been gone maybe half a candle-mark.”

“I'd best get going while the trail's fresh.” Éomer stood up, bowed, and strode off towards the Rohirric encampment.

Ivriniel watched his broad back retreat into the distance, a faint smile playing across her lips. Then she signalled to Erin. “Erin, my dear, could you go and fetch my errant nephews? It is high time they made themselves useful for once. Oh, and before you do so, could you bring me my map and magnifying glass? You will find them in the bureau beside my bed.”

 

~o~O~o~

En route to the stables, Éomer ducked in to his tent to grab a bed roll and a few provisions. His page looked startled to see him return so soon, and even more startled by the sudden whirlwind of activity.

“Sire...” he said.

“Not now, Edric,” said Éomer irritably.

“But it's a letter sire... from your sister I think... I just thought...”

Éomer grabbed the letter and stuffed it in his tunic. “I'll read it later.” He stuck a spare knife down his boot, grabbed Guthwine's scabbard, and set off at a run for the stables.


	17. Of Herbs and Roast Rabbit

Siliveth sat, sobbing quietly, in the shade beside the meadow. She had watched for a while as Princess Ivriniel had directed arrangements, calling for her horse (or, more accurately, stout pony) to be saddled, and arranging a pack animal to be tacked up and loaded. Eventually, feeling rather surplus to requirements, and unable to put a brave face on her inner turmoil any longer, she had slipped away. But still she did not want to return to her father's pavilion, and clearly could not return to her husband's. The enormity of her situation finally it her, and she buried her face in her hands.

“Lady Siliveth, may I be of assistance? You seem… overcome by the heat of the day. Perhaps I could accompany you to somewhere where you can rest.”

Siliveth looked up. There, resplendent in contrasting shades of blue, with rather luxuriant lace at his cuffs and collar, stood a young man. She frowned for a moment as she tried to place him. Lord Tondir's younger… no, only surviving, son. What was his name again? Oh yes, that was it.

“Thank you, Lord Úron. You are right, it is the sun, I think.” Siliveth rapidly tried to pull herself together and come up with a suitably diplomatic way of getting rid of her good Samaritan. “I am sure I shall be quite all right if only I rest for a moment or two longer. I would not wish to incommode you.”

For his part, Úron was nothing if not a man who prided himself on always being up-to-snuff on the on-dits of high society. With the rapidity of thought which had already made him indispensable to the new Steward of Gondor, he realised that if the gossip he had heard was true, Siliveth's options were rather limited. But of course, he could not say this in as many words.

“My Lady, I quite understand. It is rather a long way to your family's pavilion, and I would hate to see you overtax yourself. Might I suggest that Princess Isteth of Dol Amroth would be more than happy to provide you with a cooling drink; I understand your sister is a particular friend of her daughter's.”

At these words, Siliveth gave a huge sniff, thinking of her sister's plight, and Lothíriel's hasty departure. Then, with horror, she realised there was of course the danger of meeting Prince Amrothos. She suppressed a gulp, and dabbed her handkerchief to her nose. Úron took in the sudden flush on her face and noted the slightly guilty expression which spread across her countenance, and immediately realised his mistake.

“Oh, of course, how foolish of me not to think of it, Lady Errisil's pavilion is even closer. Allow me,” he bowed with a flourish and offered his arm. Siliveth allowed herself to be drawn to her feet, realising that she was in danger of making even more of a fool of herself by staying here, sitting on the ground beneath her tree for all to see. Úron tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, but, to her relief, then released it with his other hand.

“I hope I can lay your mind at rest by pointing out that of all the gentlemen in this encampment, I would wager I am the one whose company you may keep in the absence of a chaperone without raising the slightest suspicion,” he added, in a quiet voice.

Siliveth risked a quick glance towards his face, and caught sight of his smile, half ironic, half sad. He cast a look in her direction.

“And in any case, anyone who has navigated their whole life without the slightest taint of scandal attaching to their name can only be a dead bore. Look at Lord Castamir's wife, whose reputation is entirely, and tediously, spotless,” he concluded, mentioning possibly the widely most despised noblewoman in the White City.

Despite feeling as though her life had come to an abrupt end, Siliveth couldn't help a snort of laughter escaping her. Úron's slightly stiff posture relaxed a fraction. He continued in a light tone, “I myself have found myself the subject of most unseemly gossip about the colour of my clothes, for the Valar's sake. Can you believe it?”

“Surely not, sir. Why, that shade of blue is most becoming on you,” Siliveth replied, finding she had the strength to play along.

“Well, quite, that's what I thought when I ordered this tunic from my tailor. Just remember, today's gossip is simply tomorrow's mark of someone sadly behind the times – at which point mentioning events no longer at the cutting edge becomes their social ruin, not yours. For a little bit of giddy youthful folly is merely evidence of natural human frailty, whereas to be behind the times socially is unforgivable.” Out of the corner of his eye, Úron noticed a slight brightening in Lady Siliveth's countenance, and chanced a slightly risqué addendum. “And in any case, who could begrudge a woman the good fortune to have not one, but two admirers so thoroughly dashing.”

Siliveth actually giggled at the unashamedly wistful tone in Úron's voice. “They are rather, aren't they?” she said breathily.

“Well, I would make an effort to get to know them better myself, given half a chance, but I fear that when it comes to Thar-rhevia, they bat for your team, not mine, my dear,” Úron said, with an easy laugh. “Ah, and here we are at Lady Errisil's encampment. My good fellow” Úron summoned a footman, “Be so good as to ask Lady Errisil if she could provide a seat in some shade and a cooling drink for Lady Siliveth, who has, unfortunately, been overcome by the sun.”

He turned back to Siliveth. “Once I have seen you safely settled here, I shall bid you farewell. However, should you feel so minded, I should be delighted to claim the first dance at tomorrow night's ball.”

Siliveth became serious once more. “But will that not reflect badly on you, my Lord?”

“I meant what I said: today's exhilarating scandal, tomorrow's forgotten rumour.” He swept a deep bow, silken and lace cuffs billowing magnificently.

 

~o~O~o~

Some miles away, Lothíriel rode through the woods, alternating between a brisk trot and a walk. After the initial gallop to get under cover as quickly as possible, she had decided that this was a marathon, not a sprint, and she had best save Nightswan's wind.

As she rose and fell with the horse's gait, she contemplated the situation, and her own place within it. She began to realise what an insane undertaking this was. She had next to no tracking skills, and her strategy came down quite simply to following the overgrown tracks parallel to the river bank and hoping for the best. Despite her bow, she had no combat skills, and there might well be Southrons and Easterlings still roaming the woods, possibly even (and here she gave a distinct shudder) orcs. 

The thought struck fear into her heart, but with a tremendous effort she forced the nascent sense of panic firmly to the back of her mind. She gave her head a shake. What was that line her nurse used to quote? _Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof._ She resolved to pull herself together.

Still, at least one useful thing might come out of the whole débâcle. Whatever tenuous claim to respectability she had clung to prior to this escapade, surely the last remnants of her reputation now blew like rags in the wind. Surely even Aunt Ivriniel could not concoct a cover story to repair this damage. So father and mother must surely fall into her wishes and let her travel with her aunt, for there would be no reason whatsoever to keep her in society now. She could not help but feel a tiny pang of sadness, however, at just how thoroughly she had burnt her boats.

Before she could sink further into the slough of despond, however, a tiny flash of colour caught the corner of her eye. She reined in Nightswan and nudged him sideways with a press of her calf. With a snort of annoyance, he took a dancing step or two, and Lothíriel found herself close enough to the speck of purple to make it out clearly. A tiny shred of shimmering material, from a gown. She shook her head. How typical of Merilwen. Instead of a stout woollen riding dress, it would appear she had eloped wearing a silk morning dress or perhaps even a ball gown. Still, at least she knew now she was on the right track. Maybe her tracking was not utterly hopeless.

With a renewed sense of determination and purpose, she pressed Nightswan onwards, along the narrow track through the trees.

~o~O~o~

Half an hour later, Éomer (who, unlike Lothíriel, genuinely was good at tracking) spotted the shred of purple silk. He took the trouble to dismount, to take a closer look at the marks on the ground. One set of prints belonged to a heavy, all-purpose beast of some sort. Not showy horseflesh of the sort a Bronaer would favour, nor a war horse, but a yeoman farmer's solid, dependable mount. And mingled with its hoofprints, those of a much lighter, lady's mount. With… Éomer followed the tracks for a dozen or so paces… Yes, if he wasn't mistaken, favouring its off foreleg. It had picked up a stone or a strain. The pair wouldn't get far. This was all to the good. 

And, overlaying both these sets of tracks, a third set of hoofmarks. Again, nowhere near the weight of a warhorse like Firefoot. But a good piece of horseflesh. He found himself picturing the strength of a hunter crossed with the speed of a Haradrim thoroughbred. He nodded to himself. Precisely the sort of light cavalry horse favoured by Imrahil and his swan knights. So, Lothíriel had stolen her father's, or perhaps one of her brother's, horses. He turned back to Firefoot and swung himself into the saddle.

“C'mon, old fella. We need to catch the princess and her fancy stolen horse. Not to mention catching up with the pair of lovebirds before the daft young sheila breaks her horse down completely.”

Firefoot snorted as if to say _what, no apple?_ But he set off at a brisk trot.

It was another forty minutes or so before Éomer caught a glimpse of Lothíriel. Riding a rather pretty black – as he'd thought, half Haradrim, half hunter. And… he recalled the game of Phel. Yes, her brother's horse. Why was he not surprised she had made off with her brother's showy new beast? Éomer urged Firefoot on. To his surprise (for he did not know of the cast of Southrons, Easterlings and orcs dancing around inside her head), the Princess stiffened on hearing hoofbeats behind her, and spurred her horse on. The animal broke into a gallop. Éomer wasn't entirely sure she was in control of the horse, though she certainly had a good enough seat; there seemed to be no danger of her getting thrown. Well, not by the horse itself. The terrain was another matter.

Feeling slightly panicked at the thought of her injuring herself, Éomer prompted Firefoot into a gallop. At first the distance between them stayed constant, or perhaps even widened. _Haradrim horses_ , thought Éomer, _bred for speed, not endurance_. He murmured words of encouragement to Firefoot, “Keep at it lad, we'll catch them yet.” 

Sure enough, Firefoot gradually started to reel the other horse in. Slowly they gained on Lothíriel; her lighter horse, swifter over short distances, was beginning to tire. As he drew level, Éomer reached out and grabbed the destrier's bridle. 

Lothíriel gave a shriek of fear, quickly stifled. 

“What the blardy hell do you think you're up to? Riding like crazy through woods this dense. One overhanging branch and you could knock your brains out! Not to mention the fact that you can't see holes in the ground in this dense undergrowth.”

He finally got a good look at her face. For an instant there was a look of wide-eyed fear. Then the fear faded, overtaken by an expression of recognition and surprise.

“Éomer!”

“Well, who did you think it was?”

“I don't know, Southrons… Easterlings… orcs...”

“Orcs? On horseback? Don't be daft!” He let go of her reins. “Anyway, what the buggery do you think you're doing? Your auntie's worried sick.”

“You don't understand... I've got to catch them. Merilwen and Arodon. They've eloped.”

“So I heard. The crafty bugger – good on him,” Éomer said.

“Why am I not surprised you're on his side?” Lothíriel's shock was wearing off, and she had a sudden flash of anger at having been given such a fright. Then, just as quickly, her thoughts turned back to the main issue. “But it isn't the elopement that's the problem. It's that they're going to try to steal a boat, and neither of them knows one end of a boat from the other – they'll drown if they try to sail all the way down Anduin then up the coast to Dol Amroth.”

“Yeah, your Aunt told me. But that's the bit I don't get. Why the blardy hell would they want to sail to Dol Amroth?” Éomer asked in tones of surprise.

“So they can be married under the anchor,” Lothíriel said, as if stating the obvious to a very small child.

“Married under the anchor? That's what Ivriniel said. But I'm still none the wiser. Will you tell me what in the name of buggery you're talking about?”

Lothíriel looked at him in surprise, then frowned, then her face cleared as it dawned on her that of course Éomer wouldn't have a clue what she was talking about. “Dol Amroth has slightly different laws from the rest of Gondor. In Gondor women cannot be married without the consent of their nearest male relative. I'm glad to say Dol Amroth is rather more civilised, and provided a girl is over nineteen she can marry whomsoever she chooses. Marriages are traditionally officiated by ships' captains – on the quayside, beneath the anchor of his ship, hence the phrase. If a girl from somewhere else in Gondor wants to marry her sweetheart and her family disapprove, they will run off to Dol Amroth to be 'married under the anchor'.”

“Blaardy hell, this is a weird country and no mistake. Why can't sheilas just make up their own minds?”

Lothíriel rolled her eyes at the stupidity of such a question. It seemed to her that only a man, with the freedoms men enjoyed, could take such an idea for granted. She was just trying to come up with a suitably cutting riposte when Éomer, apparently cheerfully oblivious to her look of irritation, eyed the gathering gloom and changed the subject.

“I think we're going to have to stop for the night.”

“We can't,” said Lothíriel. “They've got too much of a head start on us.”

“Well we can't ride through the night – the horses will put their foot down a rabbit hole or something. In any case, it's not like Arodon's going to be making your friend ride through the night either.”

“They're desperate, they might try it.”

“Yeah... nah. Even if they did we'd find them next morning with a horse with a busted leg. But in any case, what's your friend like? Is she the sort of sheila who'd nick her brother's war horse to ride off in pursuit of her mate? Or is she the sort of sheila who'd scream blue murder at a splash of mud on the hem of her gown.”

Lothíriel made no answer to this, just smiled wryly.

“Well there you are – they're stopping for the night too.” Éomer swung his leg over Firefoot's back and dropped to the ground. Lothíriel too jumped down from her stolen horse. She scanned the clearing in which they stood.

“Oh look! A rabbit.”

“Yeah, very cute... But we need to get on with the important stuff like setting a fire going.”

Lothíriel didn't respond to this. Instead, she stooped, retrieved a knife from where it had been safely tucked down her boot and flung it with a fluid motion at the rabbit. The small animal dropped where it had been crouched, without so much as a twitch.

“Dinner,” said Lothíriel laconically.

“You keep a knife down your boot too?” Éomer sounded surprised, but there was more than a trace of admiration there too.

“Of course. Doesn't everyone?”

~o~O~o~

 

It took them a while to set up camp. Éomer set to work gathering some large and middling sized logs while Lothíriel gathered smaller kindling; this done, the King started a fire, while the princess dressed the rabbit. He was vaguely aware that his companion seemed somewhat uncharacteristically prickly towards him, but he put this down to her feeling awkward at the two of them being alone together. Then it struck him that he was, presumably, well and truly compromised. If asking a girl for a second dance was tantamount to a proposal, then spending a night in the woods was truly unforgivable. (At this point it occurred to him that even in the Mark, this sort of behaviour would lead to a rather hasty marriage if the girl was at all a respectable one).

He mused on this for a few minutes as he fed gradually larger pieces of wood into the fire. He took a quick look at Lothíriel, engaged in the messy job of skinning and gutting the coney, and doing so without complaint. A smile spread across his face. All things considered, he could think of worse sheilas to be obliged to marry. Then another thought crossed his mind; what was the betting the old princess knew exactly what she was doing sending him off in pursuit of Lothíriel? The crafty old bat! He felt a prickle of annoyance at being outflanked, then realised that underneath it there was a distinct feeling of affection towards the old princess.

As the rabbit roasted slowly on its spit above the fire, Éomer suddenly remembered the letter from his sister, hastily stuffed into his tunic before he took off in hot pursuit of Lothíriel. He took it out and began to read.

_Dearest brother, I'm a bit worried sending this, as I'm not quite sure how you'll take this news. It's very sweet (and quite typical) of you to try to fix me up with your mate Amrothos. But I'm afraid I'll have to turn him down. For you see, I've just agreed to marry his cousin..._

“Faarrrkin' hell,” said Éomer, then (catching sight of Lothíriel's raised eyebrows) added, “Pardon... I keep forgetting. I've got a mouth like a faarkin' foot soldier... Ah, bugger, there I go again.”

Lothíriel gave a snort of laughter, then stifling her giggles, said in a slightly shaky voice, “What on earth is in the letter?”

Wordlessly, Éomer held it out to her.

“Well, that doesn't help me much, does it? It's in Rohirric.”

“Sorry... It's from my sister. Saying she's going to marry Rothos's – that'll be your – cousin!”

Lothíriel surveyed Éomer in silence, waiting to gauge his reaction.

“Well, say something,” Éomer grunted.

“What do you want me to say?” she asked. “Faramir has always been my favourite cousin, I think your sister is a very lucky woman.”

Éomer frowned, and his eyes narrowed. “You knew, didn't you?”

“Well, yes, I may have received a completely inarticulate and utterly besotted letter from my cousin, telling me he was now the happiest man in the world.” Now it was Lothíriel's turn to wrinkle her nose slightly, brows drawing together. “So you genuinely don't expect Faramir to have asked you first?”

“You still can't get your head round how different the Mark is, can you?” Éomer replied. “She's twenty-four, for the gods' sakes. She can make her own mind up. And she'd probably come at me with a sword if I tried to stand in her way, if she really is taken with this cousin of yours. And I'm pretty sure she's quicker in a fight than I am.”

“You know, I'm beginning to think I'd like Rohan,” said Lothíriel. Then she started to giggle in earnest. “Poor Faramir – he's convinced _you'll_ come after _him_ with your sword!”

“What sort of a wuss is this bloke?” said Éomer disdainfully. “Don't tell me he's planning on waiting to ask me for her hand or some warg-crap like that?”

“Oh no, quite the contrary. It would seem that having proposed, without asking you first I might add, he then kissed her in public – about as public as possible. High on the walls of the city I believe – so certainly in Gondorian terms I'm afraid your sister is now compromised beyond redemption and my cousin is honour bound to marry her.”

“You Gondy bastards are bloody uptight, aren't you? As far as I'm concerned, so long as he doesn't get her up the duff before the wedding, he'll be right.”

Lothíriel was all set to respond angrily in defence of her cousin's gentleman-like manners, when Éomer held up a hand to silence her. She had not spotted the sudden movement beneath the trees, but she did sense Éomer suddenly stiffen beside her. He sprang to his feet and took a step forward, drawing his sword and holding his left hand out in front of her so that she stayed where she was.

“Show yourself.”

A figure stepped slowly into the half light on the edge of the clearing. The pointed helm with its veil of chain mail, and the tunic of articulated strips of shining steel on a leather hauberk proclaimed its owner to be an Easterling. He did not speak, but drew his sword, a wicked-looking curved scimitar.


	18. The art of dinner party conversation

Lothíriel felt cold tendrils of fear creep down her back as she saw the swordsman bring his weapon to the ready. She felt for the knife, left on the stone where she'd skinned the rabbit, and readied it in her hand. Somewhere at the back of her mind a small voice told her not to be ridiculous; if the Easterling bested Éomer, one of the great warriors of the age, armed with his sword Guthwine, then she, with her tiny knife, would hardly be in a position to defend herself.

To her immense surprise, however, Éomer dropped his guard and rested the point of his sword on the ground, both hands grasping the hilt at the ready, but offering no immediate threat.

“Your leg's crook,” said Éomer. “You can draw your sword, but you're bluffing.”

Lothíriel couldn't quite believe what happened next. The Easterling actually chuckled, then removed his helm. Beneath it, his face was a warm honey colour, his short black hair was peppered with silver, as was his neatly trimmed beard. Intelligent brown eyes with laughter lines around them surveyed the pair of them.

“Ah, you always were better with a sword than with a handful of pebbles. Never could tell when your opponent was bluffing in the encircling game.”

Somehow, drawn in by the expression in the man's warm eyes, Lothíriel couldn't stop herself saying “He still can't.” The Easterling gave a bark of laughter, showing a flash of white, even teeth.

“Whose side are you on?” Éomer hissed to Lothíriel, then turned back to the Easterling. “Chang, mate… Of all the people to bump into. What in the name of buggery are you doing here?”

“What do you think I'm doing? Or perhaps that should be...” and here he conjured an almost perfect imitation of Éomer's Rohirric accent, “What the blaardy hell do you think I'm doing? Trying to get back to my own country without being caught by your lot, that's what I'm doing.”

Éomer sheathed his sword; the Easterling did the same.

“So, what are _you_ doing out here in the woods, and with a pretty girl in tow?” asked Chang. “I hope the Cornet here hasn't been stringing you along, pretending he's a Lieutenant with prospects...” 

“Cornet?” said Lothíriel quizzically.

“Second lowest cavalry rank there is, beyond just a rank and file rider,” said Éomer, with a grin. “That's what I was back when Chang knew me in Aldburg.”

“Thank you for your concern, but I can assure you that Éomer has not misled me as to his prospects,” said Lothíriel, archly.

“Oh, a well spoken, educated young lady. You're playing well out of your league, Éomer, my lad.” Chang looked at Lothíriel, his eyebrows raised interrogatively, the creases at the corners of his eyes giving away his amusement.

“Again, you misconstrue the circumstances,” said Lothíriel somewhat primly, but she was struggling to keep her countenance, and could not quite prevent her lips twitching. There was something about the Easterling that made her warm to him immensely. The man certainly seemed to have an irreverent sense of humour. Suppressing her smile, she continued, “Éomer is merely assisting me in trying to track down a friend of mine. You haven't by any chance seen a young man and woman, probably both riding the same horse, come this way?”

“Is this some sort of Gondorian custom I'm unaware of?” asked the Easterling, dryly. “Open season for elopement, or something like that?”

However, before Lothíriel could frame a witty reply, fate intervened with a gift of sublime irony; a woman, maybe a few years older than Éomer, came blundering out from the trees, carrying an armful of firewood. She dropped the branches in surprise as she took in the scene, then to Lothíriel's amazement (for she was clearly Gondorian from her looks) moved to the Easterling's side and stood slightly behind him, as if seeking his protection.

Éomer gave a wolfish grin. “Yeah, open season for elopement or something like that. Chang, you sly old dog.”

“It's not like that,” Chang replied, rather hastily. “I'm taking her to her family in Anorien, then I'm going to head for the river and the east – crossing upstream seemed safer than the Dead Marshes, so I thought I might as well go her way.”

“Yeah, right,” replied Éomer, but Lothíriel interrupted him before he could say something really annoying.

“So, now we have both corrected any misunderstandings concerning the circumstances which bring us to be here, can I suggest, since we have already got our fire going, that you join us. I presume you were intending to set up camp somewhere nearby, seeing that you have been collecting firewood.” 

The Easterling nodded, then said, “Our stuff's a couple of chains away, through the wood.” He reached out to the tree trunk and grabbed a fallen branch which leaned against the bark; it turned out to be a makeshift crutch. Putting his weight on it, he started to limp through the trees, and the others followed.

~o~O~o~

Once Chang's horse and the couple's belongings had been retrieved, the odd assortment of people sat down to an even odder assortment of food. A couple of plump wood pigeons which Chang had brought down with his horse-archer's bow earlier in the day had replaced the rabbit, which was now serving as a starter course. The young woman with Chang, Laerwen, was quiet to start with, somewhat overawed by the new company (more by Lothíriel and her court manners than by Éomer). Chang, in contrast, was talkative, though not a chatterer. Lothíriel noticed that in between banter with Éomer, he was clearly if subtly sounding out the Rohir to see where the land lay, and what his chances of being captured and held for ransom.

In his turn, Éomer was being somewhat cagey too, the princess realised. He was happy to let Chang continue to believe that he had not risen much above the rank of cornet. Lothíriel was also aware that she was joining in this curious three-way game of subterfuge: there was no disguising her cultured accent and fancy manners, but she had no intention of revealing that she was in fact Princess of Dol Amroth, one of the highest ranked women in the land.

Eventually feeling she could bear no more of the uncomfortable verbal sparring, Lothíriel turned her attention to trying to draw the young woman into the conversation. Her accent marked her out as from the north – the Easterling had said something about trying to return her to Anorien – and her voice and choice of words betokened a labourer's or farmer's daughter.

Éomer and Chang were swapping war stories, and tales of soldiering. In a low voice, Lothíriel started to quiz the other woman.

“So, how did you come to be living in the south of Gondor?”

Grey eyes looked up at her cautiously. “The old story – I fell for a soldier boy. Married him. Moved to live at his family's farm.”

“And?”

“First his da died – just a winter gripe. Then my man and his brother got killed – at the fall of Osgiliath.”

“I'm sorry.” Lothíriel gave what she hoped was an encouraging look of sympathy. The woman continued her tale.

“It's a while back now. I don't shed many tears these days. Me n' his ma kept the farm going for a while. Then the old lord fell in battle. His nephew inherited, turned out to be a right bastard. Gave our farm to one of his men-at-arms, said women couldn't be tenants. We were stuck in the village trying to eke out a living off taking in laundry. Then the old lady got a chance to move in with her other daughter-in-law.”

“So what happened to you?”

“The lord upped the rent. For a bloody hovel with the lath and plaster falling to bits and a leaky roof. Turned out he was keen on the old droit, if you know what I mean...”

Lothíriel's eyes widened in shock. Droit de Seigneur. She'd heard stories of this as an ancient custom in the days of Ar Pharazon. Nobles (what a misnomer) were entitled to treat the women on their estate as their private concubines. She had had no idea that the law was still on the statute books.

“I had a few coins saved for a rainy day. Packed some waybread, scrounged a lift on a cart heading north and decided to head for Anorien.”

“So how did you fall in with Chang?”

“The wheel came off the wain and I was stuck in the middle of nowhere. I started to walk, the rain came on, I took shelter in a barn. Turned out Chang was already there – with his messed up leg, he couldn't walk.”

Chang obviously heard his name, for he broke off from talking to Éomer.

“She's good at leechcraft,” he said with one of his smiles. 

“Tell me that in a few months when we know whether or not you're lasting lame,” the woman said, in a matter-of-fact tone. Her brow knitted as if this thought worried her. Lothíriel noticed that Chang continued to smile nonetheless.

“Ah, a bit of a limp's just one of those things. If it hadn't been for your poultice on the wound though, I'd have burnt up with fever and died in that blaardy barn.”

“Thinking of the barn,” Lothíriel said, “How come you're on this side of the river?” As she spoke, she realised that there were holes in Chang's story that you could drive a wain and oxen through.

Chang gave her a somewhat sharper look than he'd done earlier. “After the battle on the Pelennor, my leg was crook. I took off as best I could taking the easiest way off the battlefield, which happened to be south, then holed up in the barn where Laerwen found me. I couldn't very well head back across the Pelennor after your lot had won, so we… borrowed a skiff and rowed across the river.”

Lothíriel nodded. Then another thought struck her. The hole was perhaps now the size of a wain and a single ox, but it was still a hole. “How did you get the horse?”

Chang glanced down for a moment, then back at her. “We bought it.” 

Lothiriel sensed his evasiveness. “Bought a decent piece of horseflesh like that?”

“Well, we sort of bought it. The owner was asleep, and I left a bag of silver. Half as much again as the horse was worth, I reckon...”

“I insisted he leave the money,” Laerwen chipped in. Chang took advantage of the interjection to escape Lothíriel's cross examination, and turned to the Rohir.

“Blaardy hell, Éomer, she's a sharp one. If you marry her, you'll never have a moment's peace again.”

“He's not...”

“We aren't...”

Both of them spoke simultaneously, and Chang chuckled. “Mind you, she's a damn sight better at interrogating a prisoner than you are, Éomer, m'lad. So, this here elopement that isn't… you may insist that it's all above board, but I bet the lass's father won't.”

With that masterstroke, Chang managed to change the subject and escaped Lothíriel's probing questions. The conversation moved to other topics, and the atmosphere, which had begun to be quite prickly, turned more cordial once more. The talk continued for a while, but gradually, the gloaming gave way to night and eventually the four of them took to their bed rolls for the night. 

Lothíriel must have been more tired than she realised, for she fell asleep almost at once. She began to snore softly, blissfully unaware that Éomer lay on his side, watching from the other side of the fire as her face relaxed in sleep. A thoughtful, half smile played across his face.

~o~O~o~

Aragorn steepled his fingers and rested his chin on their tips. His elbows sat solidly on the trestle table which served as desk and conference table within his tent. The evening meal of bread, fruit and cold meats, to be enjoyed by the small gathering, lay on a side table, largely untouched.

"So, your daughter is not joining us today?" he said to Imrahil.

The prince nodded, and said in a bland voice, "Regretfully, Lothíriel is indisposed."

"I am sorry to hear that. I saw Prince Erchirion at the lists earlier, and Prince Elphir has of course accompanied his wife back to Minas Tirith in preparation for her confinement, but what of Prince Amrothos? I hope he is not also indisposed."

Imrahil gave a laugh (a slightly nervous one to Úron's ear). "Amrothos is in robust health, I am glad to say. He is accompanying my sister on an excursion to see the surrounding countryside. It seemed wise, given the dangers still lurking in the woods, to ensure she had an escort."

Had it not been utterly unbecoming to his rank, Úron could have sworn he heard his King give a soft snort. 

"I would rather have presumed it to be the other way round; that you would charge the estimable princess with keeping Amrothos out of mischief..." Aragorn paused for a moment, and Úron caught a distinct twinkle in his eye. "I don't suppose you happen to know the whereabouts of the King of Rohan, do you?"

Imrahil gave a cough, which could have been awkward, or could have simply been brought on by the heavy spring pollen in the meadows. "He has also gone on the excursion with my sister."

"Ah," Aragorn said, dropping his hands from beneath his chin and reaching for the pouch of pipeweed which lay to the side of the stack of parchments. "Accompanied by Éothain, no doubt. I am so glad he has made up his difference of opinion with your youngest son." This time Úron made out a twitch in the muscles at the corner of his liege-Lord's mouth and hastily engaged himself in sorting the dispatches which had just arrived from Minas Tirith into a sensible order, lest he lose his countenance entirely (for he now realised that his new King was far more practised at keeping a straight face than he was, a fact which surprised him, given how much of his own life had been dedicated to necessary if well-intentioned subterfuge).

"I had hoped," Aragorn continued, "That we might discuss trading arrangements with Rohan, but it seems that that is off the cards now. I think instead we shall discuss the state of our naval resources, and the threats still extant along the coast to the south of the Mouths of Anduin. Obviously, that is your area of expertise, Imrahil. However, first I would like to get some idea of how things stand in Minas Tirith."

"Lord Faramir has briefed me thoroughly, your majesty," Úron began. "I have here the relevant dispatches, concerning prisoners of war on the Pelennor, rebuilding the outer circles, restoring sanitation, securing food supplies..."

Aragorn waved a hand; the slightly imperious gesture was undercut, however, by the slightly wry smile on his lips. "I know the new steward to be as able (if reluctant) an administrator as he was a soldier. I have, in any case, his letters detailing the steps he has taken, which seem to me to have the situation admirably well under control. What I wish to know, however, are the details which neither you nor he would willingly commit to paper – well, not if you have any sense, and my impression is that both of you are sensible men. 

“My youth was spent soldiering under various guises, partly to gain knowledge of the realms of men, and in particular, the realm to which I could lay claim to the kingship. I served under Lord Faramir's grandfather, Ecthelion. I am intimately acquainted, or was, with the court in Minas Tirith. Like any other (I also served King Thengel of Rohan for a while) it was a place of competing political factions. These factions, I understand, became if anything more pronounced, the differences between them widened still further, under Denethor. I am aware that there are some who will not welcome my arrival in Minas Tirith. I wish to know how Lord Faramir views this situation.”

Úron, all too used to the cynical machinations of the court, mentally added the words _And indeed which faction Lord Faramir belongs to_. He caught Aragorn giving him an appraising glance.

“I have no doubts as to Faramir's loyalty, by the way; I have exchanged correspondence with him, and furthermore, have Mithrandir's, Frodo's, and most importantly,” here the king broke into a smile, “Master Samwise's good opinions of him.”

Úron chuckled in response. “It seems that your reputation as being able to look into the hearts of men is well deserved – an ability you may be interested to know Lord Faramir also appears to possess.”

“One of the gifts of the blood of Numenor,” Imrahil said.

“So, to my question… how goes Faramir's attempts to bring the various factions into line?”

“Lord Castamir is proving… difficult.”

“Castamir… now there's a surprise. Or would be, had I not known his father well. Unfortunately. There was at least one skirmish I can think of in the Debatable Lands under Ecthelion, which did not go as well as it should because of his father's poor captaincy. One might almost have questioned the man's loyalty. And of course, his choice of name for his son was always an interesting one. Family tradition, he said, but some traditions deserve to fade into obscurity.”

The two fell to discussing the various power-plays taking place, before eventually Aragorn drew the meeting to a close. As the other two men were about to depart, Aragorn smiled at both of them.

“Once your children are no longer indisposed, and the king of Rohan has returned from his excursion with your sister, Imrahil, we must discuss how best to secure relations with Rohan.” It was hard to tell in the lamp-light, but Úron was sure the prince coloured slightly. “And Úron – Lord Faramir mentioned a vacant position for a magistrate. You should give it some thought.”

Both men bowed to their king before retiring through the tent flaps into the twilight of a warm and pleasant evening. Each felt their new king seemed rather more attuned to what they had presumed were their private, innermost thoughts than they felt entirely comfortable with.

~o~O~o~

Lothíriel woke late in the dark watches of the night. The full moon cast strange shadows across the clearing but its silvery light bright enough to see by. She and Éomer had settled down rolled in their cloaks on opposite sides of the fire. The other couple had settled between them. Lothíriel took in the two figures now lying in the gap between her and the king of Rohan, and stifled a laugh. The two had protested most vociferously the entirely friendly and business-like nature of their relationship, and had lain down a few feet from one another. Lothíriel had not believed these protestations, nor the decorous sleeping arrangements, for one instant. And it seemed that in sleep their inner desires gave them away; the two of them had rolled towards one another, and the Gondorian woman now slept soundly in the Easterling captain's embrace, her head resting on his breast, her hand nestled inside the opening of his shirt to guard it from the chill night air, his arms wrapped around her.

But her smile faded as she glanced across at Éomer. Such a short time ago he had asked her for a second dance, a knowing look in his eyes? And she had granted it willingly, joyfully even, excitement bubbling up inside her. And then everything had come crashing down – Bronaer had shown Éomer that wretched swan brooch. She still remembered her gut wrenching feeling of shock as she saw Éomer's puzzlement turn to an expression of hurt, saw the triumph glittering in Bronaer's eyes.

Of course, with the flight of Merilwen and her young man, whatever lies Bronaer had told Éomer had been set on one side for the time being. So far on the journey she and Éomer had, it seemed to her, rebuilt a sort of uneasy friendship. But it was not anything like the comfortable rapport which had existed before Bronaer's attempt to poison things, and if, for a moment during the ball, there had been the promise of more than just a rapport, the moment had surely passed. But now, lying on the hard ground, the cold penetrating her cloak, a wave of loneliness swept over Lothíriel. Perhaps, had things gone differently, she could be lying within the warm circle of Éomer's arms. What would that feel like? She was not sure what she craved more: the quicksilver feel of desire running through her veins that she had felt when she danced with him; or the sense of peaceful but deep affection she picked up from the couple lying on the ground nearby. Either way she was seized by a feeling of loss. She had this nagging feeling she'd been on the brink of being offered a precious treasure, and had lost it before she'd had a chance to realise its true value.

Her mind swirled round in circles – pointless, self-defeating circles. She rolled over angrily, and told herself not to mope. Funnily enough, the voice in her head sounded uncannily like her Aunt. Moping was pointless. She resolved that, as soon as Chang and his companion were on their way, she would speak to Éomer about his conversation with Bronaer. At least then she would know where she stood. Decision taken, she managed to drift back into a rather fitful sleep.

She was woken by the sound of Éomer gathering their possessions together and shoving them back into the saddle bags. The embers had gone out. She could see him silhouetted by the grey light before dawn as he crouched near the horses. Over to his right, she heard Chang gave a grunt and disentangle himself from Laerwen's arms. She sat up and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes.

Laerwen rolled up her cloak, then took some bread out of her bag which she broke and shared with the Easterling. Inspired by this practical course of action, Lothíriel fetched some dry biscuits and a water skin from her saddle bag, which she shared with Éomer. They settled for a companionable, if rapid, breakfast

“So, where to after Anorien?” Éomer asked, between mouthfuls.

“Head further north then east across the Riddermark,” Chang said. “It's safer to cross the river further north. Then head for home.”

“Safer to cross the river, maybe, but how about the Riddermark itself? You don't exactly look like a son of the Eastfold, Chang, mate.”

“Yeah… nah… yeah. But I've thought about the odds and I reckon it's still safer than the alternatives. Not by much, I grant you.”

Éomer was silent for a while, then muttered, “Just a mo...”

He headed over to his pack and rooted around for a moment or two, returning with a box and a scrap of parchment. He scribbled on it with a lead pencil, then opened the box. From it he took a blob of wax which he warmed over the embers at the edge of the fire, and a carved signet, and carefully placed a circle of embossed wax on the parchment.

He handed it to Chang. “That should see you right.”

Chang read the note, looked at the seal, and his jaw dropped. “Farkin' hell, that's the royal seal… Éomer, have you deserted and nicked off with the king's royal signet? That will get you into real trouble...” Chang's eye's narrowed. “Wait a mo… What is it you're not telling me?”

Éomer started to pack the pencil, signet and remains of the wax into their box, looking down at his pack to avoid meeting Chang's eye. There was a heavy silence for several heartbeats. Lothíriel looked from one to the other. Surely the cat was out of the bag now!

Suddenly a piercing scream sliced through the tension. A woman's scream, high-pitched, panic stricken. From somewhere down slope towards the river. Chang levered himself to his feet with the stick he used as an improvised crutch, grabbed his bow and hobbled towards his horse. Éomer was already in Firefoot's saddle, fumbling with the buckles on his sword belt. With a surprising amount of agility, given his leg, Chang hauled himself up onto his horse's back. The two men urged their mounts off in the direction of the scream. 

Lothíriel looked at Laerwen. The older woman had pulled her kitchen knife out of the pack, and shoved it (safely wrapped in its leather scabbard) into her girdle. She gave Lothíriel a defiant look.

“If Chang's going down fighting, I might as well be with him. Whatever's on the loose down there will probably get us anyway – quickly in a fight or find us cowering in the bushes later.”

“Too right,” Lothíriel replied (realising as she spoke that she had spent altogether too much time in Éomer's company and had begun to pick up some of his turns of phrase). She added, “Come on! We can both ride Nightswan.” A quick pat of her boot to make sure her throwing knife was there, then she checked the somewhat larger knife at her hip. She gave Laerwen a leg up, then swung herself up behind and turned the destrier down hill.

**Author's Note:**

> The problem in probability theory is drawn from a correspondence between Pascal and Fermat. The answer may seem obvious to the modern reader - but is only so thanks to the insight they brought to the problem.


End file.
